


Collision Course

by rahleeyah



Category: City Homicide (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 51
Words: 124,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25221985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rahleeyah/pseuds/rahleeyah
Summary: They were always meant to find one another; they were always on a collision course, bound for one another. The two halves of their lives, the before and the after, come crashing together. This is Nick and Jen's story, from one beginning to another, a mix of flashbacks and canon moments, converging.
Relationships: Nick Buchanan/Jennifer Mapplethorpe
Comments: 42
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

_22 September 2005_

Wesley always slept well. Nevermind the cameras, and the mics, nevermind the lies and the danger, nevermind the stink of Hatrono's cigarettes and the stupid shirts that filled Wesley's half of the closet, nevermind the bite of fear and the endless swirling of her nerves; Wesley always fell into sleep easily, deeply, warm and solid and unmoving at her back. For over a year now she'd been asking herself the same question: _why doesn't it bother him?_ How could he be so calm, so steady, when Jen felt herself in danger of flying apart at the seams? Nothing ever seemed to rattle him; he was quick on his feet, and utterly unflappable, and even now, when everything was about to come to a crashing halt, when the life that they had built in this beautiful house was about to turn to ashes in their hands, he had whispered _goodnight,_ and drifted off to sleep as if nothing were amiss, while she was trembling from head to foot, a thousand questions, _what ifs_ and possible outcomes, swirling through her mind like some kind of manic film reel.

So much had changed, over the last year. When Jen first accepted this assignment she'd thought she'd be gone no more than a month, had thought that the undercover training might serve her well as she sought to move up the ranks of the State Police - nevermind that she'd never be able to talk about it - had thought it might even be _fun._ She knew better, now. She's seen friends killed, watched her initial deadline of a month pass in a wisp of smoke, turn to two months, to six, to thirteen. When she first met Wesley, when he was no more than a stranger to her, she'd found him almost alarmingly bland, detached and seemingly devoid of any sort of personality, but over the last thirteen months she'd learned the truth of him, the strength of him, the passion that burned within his chest, quiet, like the lull before a lightning strike, quiet, like the sea receding before a tsunami. How was she supposed to carry on without him, now? How was she supposed to go back to her little house, her empty bed, her desk in the Fraud department, and pretend like she had never lost everything, like she hadn't found love and been shattered by its impending loss, like she had never known the sound of a gunshot and the spray of blood and the oppressive, terrible silence, after?

When she'd first accepted this assignment there were so many things she hadn't known. She'd never had a _legend,_ never checked a _dead drop,_ had never dived off the back of a millionaire's yacht and swum through crystal glass waters, had never been married, never seen a _honeytrap_ in action, never thought of herself as a _cleanskin._ So many _nevers_ , and now they were all _never agains,_ and she didn't know where to put it all, the hatred she felt for this life and the terror she felt at the impending loss of it.

It would have been easier, she thought, if Wesley were coming with her, but he wasn't, couldn't, wouldn't; he was on the verge of disappearing back beneath whatever rock he'd crawled out from under, slipping beneath the waves, vanishing as easily as if he had been no more than a figment of her imagination, as if he had never been real at all. Two days from now she'd wake up in her own bed, and wonder if any of it had ever happened, or if this whole year - and Wesley himself - had been no more than a dream.

Behind her he stirred, and his heavy arm slipped out from underneath the doona, draped itself over her waist, the weight and the warmth of him a comfort and a curse. Most nights he reached for her, asleep and yet drawn to her somehow, and most nights she relaxed back against his chest, let his warmth and his certainty seep into her bones and lull her into dreams. Most nights she welcomed his touch, sighed and let herself be swallowed up by him, but tonight the way he held her brought tears to her eyes, and she turned her face into the pillow to silence the sound of her weeping.

Come morning it would all be over; come morning, he wouldn't be _hers,_ any more. Come morning, her life would end, and start over, and she had never been good at beginnings. Come to think of it, she'd never been much good at endings, either.

"You're thinking very loudly." His voice was deep, and low, and so quiet she felt more than heard the words come rumbling up out of his chest. They'd long since learned how to hide their conversations from the mics, how to hide their hands from the cameras; if he pressed his lips to the back of her neck, if he buried his face in her hair and murmured softly to her the words would be too muffled for the watchers to pick them up, and Jen and her Wesley could keep their secrets. Strange, she thought, how that seemed almost normal to her now.

"I'm fine," she whispered into her pillow. A lie, one of many; the lies dripped from her lips so easily now that she could almost hate herself for it. _Almost,_ but not quite, for lying was what they required of her, and by all accounts she'd done a sterling job.

"Like hell," he grumbled, and his arm tightened its grip on her waist while his other reached for her beneath the doona and _oh,_ but she was powerless to resist him.

She turned in his arms, easily, and they flowed together, the way they always did, the navy doona hiding the way her body reached for him, and his for her, the way his thigh slipped between her legs and her hands caught in his vest, pulled him in closer.

"Talk to me," he whispered, sliding his arm back underneath the covers so that his hand could reach for her face. His palm settled warm and heavy against her cheek, and his thumb stroked her skin gently, down to brush against the full swell of her lip, and she could not stop the tears that came pouring out of her then, as she thought how tenderly he touched her, thought how much she adored him, thought how much she would miss him.

"I should be happy," she said, and he smiled at her softly, knowingly in the darkness.

"We get to go home tomorrow," he said. A statement of fact, an admission of understanding. They had both wanted, for so long, to slake off these legends they'd assumed and find their way back to their own lives, and now that the moment was upon them they found that the dearest wish of their hearts was not the blessing they had once believed it to be, but was instead a cleaving, a desolation. When he spoke the word _home,_ Jen heard in his voice the same disappointment that swirled within her; they had been so long in this place that it had become their home, that the memory of the people they had been before had faded, that the thought of leaving had become almost intolerable. To them both. How could she carry on without him? Jen wondered as she looked into his face, his warm, dark eyes, his hair fluffy and mussed from sleep, his chest broad and strong and warm where her hands rested against it. She had forgotten, somehow, what it was to be without him, and now she was going to have to learn.

"We knew this day was coming," he reminded her.

 _I didn't think it would come so soon,_ she thought, but she did not speak those words aloud, because she recognized the folly in them. Already she and Wesley had been trapped in this house far longer than they'd ever dreamed; their homecoming had arrived half a year behind schedule. It was not _soon;_ it was far too late. And yet, still, the ending of everything felt rushed, somehow, and she would have given anything for just a little more time.

 _But what would you do with it, if you had it?_ She asked herself. It made no difference if the op ended tomorrow, or in six months, or in another year; it was always meant to end, and when it did, she and Wesley were always meant to end with it. _Wesley_ wasn't even his name, not really. He had a name, and a job, and a home, and a family, and she didn't know anything about any of it. She knew him, and yet she didn't, and never would. Come tomorrow they would be separated, and she would never see his dear, sweet face again. She would never dance with him, never feel the warmth of his hand against her hip, never feel the brush of his lips against her neck, never know the ragged, wretched ecstasy of holding him tight between her thighs in the backseat of a car far from prying eyes, ever again. She would be without him, forever, and _forever_ suddenly felt like such a long time.

"I don't know how to do this," she whispered. She didn't know how to leave him, didn't know how to untangle her feelings about him, about this life they had led, the choices they had made, the price they had paid for those choices. She didn't know how to put all this behind her, didn't know how to walk back into the station in Melbourne a week from now and pretend she'd been on secondment to the Sydney police, and not running guns for a terrorist and falling in love with a stranger. She didn't know where to put it, these memories, this life that had become her own, did not know how to merge the two halves of her very self into one without shattering them both.

"Hey," he whispered, the pad of his thumb pressed against her chin. "I've got you, remember? Whatever happens. I'll look after you."

He was talking about the operation, she realized. He thought she was just worried about what might happen come morning, when they were to meet Hartono at the dockyard, when SIS and the Federal Police were meant to come storming in and arrest everyone in sight, including them. He thought she was just worried about the _job_ , and she almost laughed in his face.

"What happens when you aren't there any more?" she asked him softly, miserably, her voice wobbly with tears, and his brow furrowed, and she knew then that he understood. Wesley reached for her, his hand sliding away from her face and down over her side beneath the doona, warm fingers spreading against the small of her back and pulling her into him. Jen wrapped her arms around him, buried her face in the warmth of his neck and let him hold her.

"I'll find you," he whispered against her hair.

"You know you can't," she answered, her lips brushing against his skin as she spoke. They were hundreds of miles from the place she called _home,_ and he didn't know her name, or what she did for work, and she wasn't allowed to tell him, anyway. _But what if you did?_ A little voice whispered in the back of her mind. _The operation's over. SIS would never need to know. You could tell him, and he could find you, and then…_

And then what? Would he still love her, if he knew her as she was? Would she still need him, when she was back in her own life? What if they saw one another again, out there in the real world, and found that the connection between them had only flourished in strife, and would wither in the doldrums of a normal life? _What if I'm not what he wants, after all?_

"I will," he said stubbornly, and she could not help but smile. He meant it, she knew. It was impossible, and he meant to do it anyway. He could never hope to find her, but he'd promised her, just the same. Would they still think about each other, years from now? Would he lie in bed with some other woman and remember how it used to be, with her? Would she compare every man she met to him, and find them all wanting, and drift off to sleep alone, dreaming of him? Would anything ever make sense again?

"Don't forget me," she whispered. His warmth and the sudden vacuum created by the rushing absence of adrenaline left her exhausted, and perilously close to sleep. She had wanted to stay awake all night, talking to him, but she knew now that she could not; she could hardly keep her eyes open, and it wouldn't have done her good, in any case. The end was coming, and missing a night's sleep would not delay the inevitable.

"I won't remember anything else," he answered.

And then sleep came for her, sheltered in his arms, and she knew nothing of the world until the sun rose in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

_17 July 2009_

"I appreciate your help on this, Detective Buchanan," Wolfie was saying. "And it's nice to see you back in Homicide, even if it's only for a few minutes."

"Always happy to help, Sarge," Nick answered earnestly, reaching out to shake the hand Wolfie offered him. He'd only run upstairs to give Wolfie a copy of his team's report on the ring of illegal escorts he'd asked about, had only seized on an excuse to stretch his legs and walk away from his desk for a few minutes, but Wolfie was the sort of Sergeant who always recognized his people's efforts, and always took time to tell them that those efforts were appreciated. Not at all like Nick's current Sarge, a burly, grumpy old bastard whose name Nick was convinced they were going to find in a girl's little black book one day.

It had been a long time since Nick had been up here; he'd been lucky enough to cut his teeth in Homicide as a junior detective, but then SIS had come calling, and he'd accepted, not knowing then what it would cost. He thought he was signing up for a month or two of immersive undercover training; what he got was more than a year of danger and strife, and _her_. Homicide hadn't held his spot open, not with him being gone so long, and in the years since he'd been shunted from department to department; Traffic, Arson, Drugs, now Vice. Any other copper might well have gone mad under such circumstances, but Nick had always been fairly relaxed about his career trajectory. He'd appreciate a chance to get back on Homicide, if it ever appeared, but he wasn't in a hurry to leave Vice. The work was interesting, his crew was decent, and he knew the real reason why he'd been passed around like a hot potato. The powers that be were grooming him to move up the ranks, helping him make connections across the State Police, each Sergeant whispering to the next that here was a man who could make something of himself, if he'd just take the opportunities that had been presented to him. What they didn't know, what Nick had not confessed to any of his hopeful superiors, was that he had no such ambition; Nick enjoyed being in the field too much to condemn himself to life behind a desk. He was happy just as he was, thank you very much.

"You know, we have an opening coming up on the squad," Wolfie said thoughtfully as Nick made to leave.

That stopped Nick dead in his tracks; he was perfectly content in Vice, but the prospect of joining this squad, working with Duncan and Matt and Simon again, working _for_ Wolfie again was an interesting one. Every Detective wanted to be on Homicide, and openings upstairs were harder to come by than gold. That such an opportunity should be dropped in his lap seemed to him to be a blessing, and he was eager to hear more.

"Detective Mapplethorpe is being seconded to Counterterrorism for a few months. We need someone to step in and fill the hole. I can't guarantee it would be permanent, but it's yours if you want it."

A few months, and no guarantee of permanence, that gave Nick pause. It would be nice to come back upstairs, but what would become of him when Mapplethorpe's secondment ended? Would he get shuffled back to Traffic? _Christ,_ he hoped not; that had been, by far, the most boring of all his assignments. Was a few months in Homicide worth losing his spot in Vice? It wasn't quite what he'd been hoping for, somehow, but he didn't want to dismiss it out of hand.

"Can I think about it, Sarge?"

"Of course," Wolfie said. "Take the weekend. I'll need an answer by Monday morning, though."

"I'll do that," Nick told him. "And thanks."

Wolfie nodded to him and so Nick left him then, his thoughts whirling. _Might not be worth it,_ he told himself. On paper it sounded good, but there were long term ramifications he'd need to consider. His current Sergeant wouldn't take it well if Nick walked out on him; the man could be a right prick when he wanted to be, and he could hold a grudge. Taking this secondment might torpedo his career completely. _Or maybe Wolfie could find a spot for me permanently, and I could stay up here,_ he told himself. Even if the position he ended up with wasn't on Wolfie's crew, being in Homicide beat the hell out of Vice any day of the week.

Matt Ryan was loitering by his desk and so Nick made his way over there, intent on speaking with his old friend before taking himself back downstairs to Vice. But as he approached the place where Matt stood he glanced towards the lifts, and his heart froze in his chest.

 _It can't be,_ he thought. The doors were already closing as he looked up, and so he only caught a glimpse of the people inside the carriage, but in that split second he saw enough. It was _her_ , he was certain; his Trish, standing next to Duncan bloody Freeman, laughing. Her golden blonde hair and bright eyes, her cheeky grin, the curve of her hip; she was unmistakable to him, even from this distance. Every line and plane of her body had been written in his memory from the moment he first met her, and the thirteen months that followed had changed him so completely he no longer remembered the man he had been, before _her._ Trish, strong but brittle, Trish, clever but anxious, _Trish,_ beautiful and resilient and everything he'd ever wanted, everything he'd been missing for four years now.

What the bloody hell was she doing, laughing on the lifts in the Homicide department in Melbourne? They'd lived together in Sydney, and he'd never dreamed of finding her in this part of the country; the thought that she might have been _here_ , in his home, in his city, for all this time, was as electrifying as it was dismaying.

 _I'll find you,_ he'd promised her once. It was a ridiculous vow to make, under the circumstances. He didn't know her proper name, didn't know where she lived, didn't know anything about her family or how she'd come to be in that bed beside him, but he had promised her, just the same. And he _had_ looked for her; he'd rung friends with the New South Wales and Queensland police, put a bug in their ear about a pretty blonde copper - he was certain she was a cop, even if she'd never told him so herself. There was something about the way she carried herself, something about the way she spoke when the conversation drifted to the professional side of their operation. She balked at the work too often to be in intelligence, but she was too well trained to be a civilian, and too gentle, he thought, to be ex-army. He'd worked Missing Persons for a while and used contacts there to scroll through reams of faces, scanned every crowd, even now, knowing it was hopeless and doing it anyway. No sign of her had ever surfaced, but he hadn't really expected it to, somehow. It all seemed so far away now, their little house, their little life, the world they had built around themselves; his memories of her were rosy and gentle, and he had begun to doubt whether such a woman could exist at all.

And yet somehow, against all logic, despite the sheer improbability of it, he had just caught sight of her in his own police station. Had she been here, all this time, just under his nose? And if she _had,_ why hadn't he seen her before now? It seemed cruel, he thought, that they should have been so close to one another, and never met.

"All right, Nick?" Matt asked as he drew near.

"Yeah, all right," Nick said, reaching out to shake his hand. "Listen, who was that woman on the lift with Dunny? I feel like I've seen her before."

Maybe she was just a witness to a crime, he thought. Or maybe she was a copper back in Sydney, come to Melbourne as part of some kind of interstate cooperative effort. Maybe Matt wouldn't know her at all, or maybe -

"Oh, that's Jen," Matt said easily, and Nick's heart gave a great leap in his chest. If Matt could speak of her with such familiarity then surely, he thought, Matt would know how to find her, and then...well. And then Nick could make good on the promise that had been weighing heavy on his heart for four years now. _Oh, Christ,_ he thought, suddenly dismayed, _what if she's with Duncan?_ Dunny had always had a thing for pretty blondes, and if after all this time Nick found his Trish only to discover she was sleeping with one of his old mates; well. It didn't bear thinking about.

Matt put his fears to rest in a moment as he explained.

"Jen Mapplethorpe. She's been on the crew about two years now, I reckon. You've probably seen her around the station."

 _Mapplethorpe._ Nick could have laughed out loud. She wasn't Duncan's girlfriend, then, or another witness set to disappear into the ether. This was where she worked, every day, in the same bloody building as Nick, surrounded by his mates, and Wolfie had just offered him her job.

"She's the one going to Counterterrorism?" Nick asked.

"You heard about that?"

"Yeah, Wolfie told me you had an opening up here."

"You keen to get back to Homicide, Nick?" Matt seemed excited at the prospect, and Nick couldn't help but grin.

Five minutes before he had been uncertain, had been thinking that maybe transferring back upstairs wouldn't be worth the potential headaches it would cause down the line. In an instant, with one too-brief glimpse of her face, everything had changed; whether Wolfie could keep him on permanently or not, joining the crew would put him back in her orbit. He didn't know when her secondment was set to start; maybe if he gave Wolfie his answer now he'd have a chance to see her before she left. Even if he didn't, though, even if she was long gone before his transfer started, he'd be there when she came back. He'd be there, and he'd be able to watch her eyes go wide as she caught sight of him, would be able to hear her voice, would be able to _speak_ to her for the first time in four years. When she came back he'd be there, waiting for her. Maybe then she'd give him her number, or he'd give her his. Maybe he could ring her, and they could talk, like old times. Maybe she'd tell him where she lived, and he could drop by of a Friday, and soak in the warmth of her far from prying eyes.

 _Trish._ He had, through some stroke of luck he did not entirely understand, found her at last, as he'd promised her he would so long before. He couldn't let this chance slip through his fingers.

"Yeah, mate," he said in answer to Matt's question. "I think it's time for a change. It'll be good to be back."


	3. Chapter 3

_1 August 2004_

There was no point to it, really. Jen had spent the last month in intensive training, reviewing the files on Trish and Wesley Claybourne, learning everything there was to know about their lives and their business, drilling on international shipping regulations and the particulars of the gun-running ring she was about to infiltrate, testing on weapons and her undercover skills. There was no reason for her to still be looking over the files, but she was doing it anyway, more out of a desire to keep herself occupied than anything else.

For the last month she'd been living out of a small, somewhat disreputable hotel in Sydney, and that was where she sat now, cross-legged on the sagging double bed, the pages containing the sum total of her new life as Trish Claybourne spread out in front of her. It was a Sunday afternoon, and Monday morning was go time. Come Monday she wouldn't be Jennifer Mapplethorpe, tenacious young detective eager to make her mark in her profession, any longer. Come Monday she'd be Trish, calculating and vivacious, willing to do whatever it took to make a buck, utterly without morals and just a touch ruthless. The files contained transcripts of interviews with the real Trish Claybourne, and it was those that interested Jen most, now. She studied the words, trying to get a feel for how the woman spoke, how she carried herself. From what Jen could tell Trish was careful with her words; she used flattery and jokes to deflect questions she didn't want to answer, but she never gave herself away. There was something terrifyingly disingenuous about the woman; nothing was ever as it seemed, with Trish. And Jen would have to learn how to be just the same, how to guard her heart and her secrets, how to make people trust her without allowing herself to vulnerable. It would be a difficult line to walk, but at least she wouldn't be alone.

 _He_ would be with her. _He,_ the mysterious _he_ the spooks kept talking about, the man who would play the part of her Wesley. They hadn't met yet, and the one time Jen had asked about him, this man who would be her husband for the foreseeable future, the only thing Abdul had told her was _don't worry._ There were no two words in the English language more unsettling than _don't worry._ Jen was supposed to live with this man, to work with him, to exist side-by-side with him, to trust him with her very life, and she hadn't even met him yet. From the little she'd been able to glean he was also undergoing training, just like she was, but Jen couldn't decide if that thought was a comforting one or not. If he needed training then maybe he was like her, not a lifelong spook but a cleanskin roped into the operation because of his resemblance to the real Wesley Claybourne and the convenient deniability of using an asset no one had ever heard of before. If he was just a citizen, like she was, maybe he would be easier to get along with, easier to get to know, less callous than the spooks; then again, if he was a novice spy, maybe his inexperience would be a liability. Maybe hers would be.

But if he needed training, too, Jen couldn't see why they hadn't been allowed to go through it together. Wouldn't it have been better if they'd spent the last month getting to know one another, if they were already comfortable together before they ever set foot in the Claybourne's home?

Abdul hadn't had an answer for that question, either. It seemed Jen would have to be satisfied with this; Abdul was even now on his way towards the hotel with her Wesley in tow. She'd finally get a chance to meet him, finally get a chance to see his face, to hear his voice. They'd have a chance to talk before the op kicked off; Jen could only hope that the few hours they were allowed today would be sufficient to dispel any awkwardness between them. In order for this to work they'd have to pass for a married couple, would have to be familiar and easy with one another, and if Jen were being honest with herself she'd be forced to admit that was the part that scared her the most. Oh, she'd had a few boyfriends, over the years, but she'd never lived with one full time, never even come close to marriage. Jen had always valued her space and her privacy. She'd have neither, once the op began, and she worried it might all prove too much for her.

 _What if I don't like him?_ She wondered, but the thought had no sooner drifted across her mind than there came a knock upon the door, and in the next breath Abdul was stepping through it, having used his key to let himself in without waiting for invitation. The spooks were like that, Jen had found.

For the moment she stayed right where she was, watching as _he_ followed Abdul into the room. Jen's first impression of the man who would be her husband was...underwhelming, to say the least. He was tall, and though his shoulders were broad and his arms were well-muscled he was not particularly burly. His dark eyes were warm but unreadable, his dark hair utterly unremarkable. His face was handsome in a forgettable sort of way; the line of his jaw was not particularly sharp, and neither was the rise of his cheeks. If they'd met under any other circumstances Jen was certain her eye would have passed right over him. Maybe that was intentional; the spooks preferred to fade into the background, preferred not to draw attention to themselves, preferred not to leave a trace behind, and she rather thought this man might fit that description.

"Wesley," Abdul said, "this is Trish. Trish, Wesley." He gestured between them by way of introduction.

Jen was still sitting cross-legged on the bed, and before she had a chance to rise Wesley was already moving, crossing the space between them in three long strides and reaching out his hand.

"Nice to meet you," he said. His voice was deep, and gravelly, and Jen liked it rather more than she thought she should.

"You, too," she answered, shaking his hand.

"Remember, from now on, you're Trish and Wesley. You do not tell each other your real names, and you do not share personal details," Abdul told them then. "It's for your own protection," he added, no doubt noting the way Jen had frowned, the way her Wesley had crossed his arms over his chest. "You can't reveal what you never know. It's cleaner this way."

That made a certain amount of sense, Jen supposed, but it was a chilling thought, nonetheless. Did SIS think they were likely to be found out? What would happen to them if their cover was blown?

"You'll stay here tonight," Abdul continued. "We've got a room for Wesley right next door. Someone will be round in a little while with dinner. In the meantime, why don't you two get to know each other?"

He flashed them a grin, and then turned and departed on silent feet, the soft sound of the door closing behind him eerily grim in its finality.

 _This is it,_ Jen thought. She looked up at Wesley; his eyes were studying the room while he stood tall and unmoving beside her, apparently ignoring her. He wasn't particularly tense, didn't seem anxious in any way, but he also didn't seem to be in any hurry to speak to her. The expression on his face was bland and unreadable, and altogether he seemed more like a question mark than a person to her, for she knew so very little about him, and yet her very life seemed to rest on his shoulders. _What now?_ She wondered. Now that they were alone it seemed as good a time as any to try to make inroads with one another, but how? Trish was meant to be the more outgoing of the two; perhaps they'd brought her a Wesley who intended to let her do all the speaking for both of them. It didn't seem fair, somehow; she felt herself completely lost, utterly adrift in unfamiliar waters, and if he couldn't even do her the courtesy of speaking -

"So," he said, turning to look down at her. For a moment he flashed her a smile, warm and fleeting, and then he reached for the hideous lumpy armchair, pulling it in close beside her bed and then folding all his long limbs into it. "Doing a little last minute studying?" he asked, gesturing towards the pile of papers spread out across her bed.

"No harm in being prepared, is there?" she asked. It was a perfectly innocuous question he'd asked her, but for some reason it made her feel terribly defensive, as if when his eyes fell on her face he could see straight through her to the fears and doubts that swirled within her, as if he were even now thinking, as she was, that maybe she wasn't cut out for this task.

"No," he agreed easily. "I could probably do with a little more studying myself."

That didn't bode well, to Jen's mind. She needed a Wesley who knew their story inside and out, cover to cover, not someone too reckless to do his homework, risking both their lives with his cavalier attitude.

"Want me to quiz you?"

He smiled at her again, and this time she thought she detected a hint of mirth in his eyes, as if he were teasing her, and she couldn't quite decide how to feel about that, either. Somehow she couldn't seem to get a read on him; was he stern and quiet, or was he easygoing and lighthearted, or was it all just an act, hiding a cold and calculating nature?

 _I suppose I'll find out,_ she thought.

"All right, then," she said aloud, turning away from the pages of her files and focusing on him instead. He really did have a nice face, she thought as she waited for him to speak; his face was not so handsome as to lend him an air of arrogance, but neither was it so plain as to make him insecure. It was... _nice._

"When's my birthday?" he asked.

She hadn't been expecting that, somehow. She'd been expecting him to quiz her on the details of the operation, their shipping company and Hartono's crew. Wesley had bypassed that entirely, and gone straight to their personal details. The details that worried her most, the details that made up their connection to one another. But he hadn't asked about _her_ birthday, wasn't testing how well she knew her own legend. He had asked about his own. It was the sort of thing a wife would be expected to know about her husband, of course, a detail she'd need to know as well as she knew her own name, but the question itself just reminded her that they were supposed to be _married;_ this man would be her _husband,_ now. This stranger would share everything with her, and she with him. Starting here, she realized. Starting now.

"The third of January. 1969," Jen answered after a moment. The answer had been there, lurking somewhere in the back of her mind, and she'd honestly felt a little bit relieved when it came to her. "What about mine?" she asked him quickly. If he could tease, so could she.

Wesley leaned back in that appalling armchair, spread his legs wide and crossed his arms over his chest, smiling at her. It was a genuine, easy sort of smile; Jen liked that, too.

"Oh, you know me," he said. "Never was any good with dates. I drive you mad at birthdays and anniversaries. I always forget." He paused, let the comment land, let Jen wrap her head around this new facet of their relationship, this detail that gave birth to a thousand more, this one little thing that would help make what they had between them seem real. Maybe he genuinely didn't remember her birthday, or maybe he just thought it would make the legend more believable; how many husbands forget their anniversaries every year, anyway? More than a few, Jen knew. But -

"But I always make it up to you," Wesley added softly.

Was that sort of man he was? She wondered. Not Wesley, not the persona he'd concocted for himself, gleamed from pages of interview notes and criminal records and personal details, but the man _he_ truly was. The sort who would right a wrong, the sort who cared about his wife, even if he couldn't remember her birthday, the sort who would treat her like a queen, albeit a few days after the fact? His broad hands were wrapped around his biceps and it occurred to Jen as she looked at him that really, his hands were quite large, and quite strong-looking; actually, most of him was large, and strong-looking, and he was going to be her _husband._ Would he hold her hand, when they went to the shops? Kiss her cheek when he left for work in the morning? Would one of those big hands of his settle easily at the small of her back, guiding her through a crowd, comforting her, reminding her that she wasn't alone?

"It's the seventeenth of March," Jen said. She had to say _something;_ his quiet assurances had left her rattled, and a strange sort of tension seemed to float on the air. "1972."

"Good, then," Wesley said, apparently satisfied. "Let's talk about Claybourne shipping."

And so they did; just like that the conversation switched from personal to professional, and Jen's feet settled on solid ground. This she could do; talking about their new offices, the personnel, the computers, talking about the various steps involved in bringing in cargo, how they would handle the legitimate goods, how they intended to connect with Hartono, what they would do once the illegitimate crates started washing ashore, bound for their company's warehouse. This was the easy part, the part that was all rules and procedures; she knew what to do, when it came to business. When it came to Wesley's warm eyes, his soft voice, she was completely out of her depth, and she didn't want to spend another second worrying about it, not now when there was work to be getting on with. The rest could keep.

At least until Monday.


	4. Chapter 4

_4 September 2009_

For a moment Nick stood staring up at the house, his heart in his throat.

It had been seven weeks since he accepted the secondment to Homicide. Seven weeks since he caught sight of _her,_ his Trish - Jen, whatever - on the elevator with Duncan. Seven weeks since his whole world had been turned upside down. And from that day to this every second, every breath, every choice, had been leading him here, to this. He had seen her and he chosen, without hesitation, to follow that wil-o'-the-wisp flash of her golden hair wherever it led, determined to find her, to speak to her, to look into her eyes and be reminded that it wasn't all some fever dream, that it was real, that _she_ was real. All he'd wanted, from the very first, was to see her again, and now that their reunion was imminent he found himself plagued by an uncharacteristic onset of nerves.

Wolfie had told him just that morning that they'd found the funding to keep him on the squad, that come Monday when Mapplethorpe was back at her desk he wouldn't have to vacate his own. It was what he'd hoped for all along; Homicide was the best squad in the State Police, the work was exciting, the crew was solid, and _she_ would be there. They would be working together again, no longer married but still in one another's orbit, still relying on one another, and he remembered how well they had got on before, and found himself glad of it. And yet, still, the nerves. _He_ had made this choice; he had known that when Matty invited him round for drinks on Friday night, offered him the chance to meet the mysterious Jen before she started back to work on Monday, that it would mean seeing _her_ again. When he looked up at the house he knew that she was inside it, but he likewise knew that she had no idea he was coming, and if he were honest he would be forced to admit that he felt a bit guilty about the whole thing. Nick had spent the last seven weeks preparing for this moment, but the curious nature of their friends and the binding regulations of the Official Secrets Act meant he had not been able to warn her. It would be a shock to her, he was sure.

How would she respond, seeing him again? Trish had always been cool under pressure, had always reacted quickly and without hesitation to changes in the game plan, and he didn't doubt that she'd be just as smooth tonight as she had ever been while they were undercover. But how would she _feel_ about it? Would she want to see him again, would she appreciate that he had kept his promise, would she be cross to learn that he had invaded her squad, her job, that he had forced himself into her world without invitation? If she wanted him gone he would leave at once but he desperately hoped it wouldn't come to that; the prospect of working with her again thrilled him, and he didn't want to see this chance slip away, didn't want all the hope, all the potential possibility of this moment to end in her rejection of him.

What he really wanted to know was whether they'd work together as well now as they had done before, if she would trust him, if she would care for him now as much as she had done before, or if he would for her. Their circumstances had been extraordinary, the first time around; cut off from their families, their friends, their jobs, far from home, they'd had no one to rely on but each other. Nick wasn't a fool, he knew that extreme feelings of fear and isolation could create bonds where they might not otherwise grow. Perhaps without the adrenaline of the SIS operation they wouldn't have much in common; perhaps the time had changed them both too completely to rekindle their previous affection.

But perhaps not. And it was that _perhaps,_ more than any other, that moved him into action, set him reaching into the backseat of his car to retrieve the case of beer he'd brought, hoisting it onto his shoulder and marching off for the house. He had loved her, once. Loved the way the curve of her hip fit into the palm of his hand, loved the way her eyes crinkled up when she smiled, loved her quick, clever wit and her tender heart. He had loved her when her name was _Trish,_ and there was every chance he would love _Jen,_ too, and he had to know, had to find out for certain.

Matt and Emma had invited him round for dinner several times, and Matt had texted him, told him the door was open and he was welcome to let himself inside, so he didn't hesitate, walked straight through it and into the foyer, a smile already tugging at the corner of his lips. She was _here_ , in this house, waiting for him; his heart began to pound. They would be observed every second tonight, and so he knew it was vitally important that he handle their reintroduction with care. He would need to be friendly, but not overly interested, would need to treat her as a new colleague, and neither stare at her nor ignore her. He would need to keep his smile controlled, keep his hands to himself, and he prayed that she would do the same, at least until they had a chance to speak to one another alone. Which, he realized with dismay, would likely not be until at least Monday.

The crew were gathered in the dining room; they called out to him as he entered, and he returned their greetings warmly, grinning fit to burst now, half from genuine delight and half from sheer nerves. Duncan, Matt, Simon, and Allie were all accounted for in the dining room, but two ladies were missing from their number. It wouldn't take out a detective to work out where Emma and Jen were, and Nick pointed his feet there immediately, telling Matt he needed to put the beers in the fridge before he joined them. Truth be told he could have plunked the case down on the table and let them tear into it right then, but he reckoned if Emma and Jen were both missing chances were good they were in the kitchen, and that was right where he needed to be.

It was one of those rare moments when time itself seemed to shift; his entrance into the kitchen seemed to happen remarkably quickly, sped up like a film he'd fast forwarded to get to the good parts. He stepped towards the center island, saw Emma standing nearby, took the case of beer down off his shoulder, and then like a freight train crashing into his solar plexus the sight of Trish's face slammed into him and left him reeling.

She was there, just _there;_ she spun around on her heel just as he swung the beer onto the island, a balletic sort of symmetry to their movements, and while the last thirty seconds seemed to have passed in the blink in the eye the moment she lifted her chin to look up at him time stopped, instead. The air seemed to have been sucked out of his chest, and he rocked back onto his heels, knowing he must have looked so foolish, knowing that the recognition, the hope, the genuine surge of relief, of happiness he felt the moment he looked at her must have shown on every line of his face, and yet he was utterly, completely unable to school his features.

Her eyes went wide and the graceful movements of her body stopped; someone had pressed _pause_ on the tape. She looked up at him, unblinking, and he looked back, overwhelmed. A thousand memories seemed to wash over him at once; dancing with her through the kitchen, the warm skin of her back beneath his palm as they walked along the deck of Hartono's yacht in their swimsuits beneath a sweltering sun, the quiet sound of her tears muffled into a pillow in the still of the night. Looking at her, something deep within his chest seemed to click into place, a key sliding into a lock with an audible turn, opening a door so long kept closed. _Christ,_ she was beautiful, as beautiful now as when he'd first met her in that shitty hotel five years before. Golden skin and golden hair and lean muscles and brilliant, sparkling eyes; she was, still, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in real life.

What was she thinking as she looked at him now? He wondered. Was her heart pounding, could she hear the same deafening roar of blood in her ears that Nick heard now? Was she wondering why he was there, was she trying to decide what to do next, was she just drinking in the sight of him? Did she feel now the way he'd felt that day he saw her on the elevator, as if the hand of God himself had reached down and placed Nick in front of her? Nick felt like the luckiest bastard in the world, looking at her then. What were the chances he'd ever meet such a woman, what were the chances she'd ever care for him as she once had done, what were the chances he'd ever be allowed the grace to see her again?

 _I ought to play the lottery,_ he thought.

"Hi," she said, faintly, and he thought about that day in the hotel, that day when he'd looked at her and realized she was about to become the most important person in his life, when he'd sat down next to her and chosen what he believed would be the best course of conversation to help them grow comfortable with one another. The answer had seemed obvious, back then, and it had worked like a dream, but now he had no idea what play to make, what to do next; he was utterly bowled over by her. He'd thought, before now, that he was prepared, ready to see her again, but every plan he'd laid vanished in an instant, blown away by the sight of her face.

"Hi," he answered, grinning.

That same hand of fate pressed _play_ on the tape; everything was moving again, Emma included.

"Jen, have you met Nick?" she asked, her eyes bouncing back and forth between them like a spectator at a tennis match, and it was only then that Nick realized how badly he'd bungled this. Emma wasn't a fool, and she had two good eyes; no doubt she'd seen the look of recognition in both their faces, and wondered at it.

Nick caught Jen's eye; he wanted her to take the lead, wanted her to decide how they ought to play this. If she wanted to confess to having known him already he'd play along with whatever lie she thought up. He already had one advantage over her, in that he had known already that she would be here; it seemed unfair for him to make all the decisions himself, and so he allowed her this one. In response to his look Jen gave the smallest shake of her head, and he knew then that she had with one glance at his face interpreted his question, and answered it already.

"No," she said, and that was that. Just like that she'd set the tone for the interaction; they would play at being strangers again, would start over, again, right here, right now. It was probably the best choice; certainly the cleanest, the one that would require the least amount of lying. She was like that, he remembered; she'd always hated the lies.

"I'm Jennifer Mapplethorpe," she told him, holding out her hand for him to shake, and Nick accepted it once. The team all referred to her as _Jen,_ but she'd introduced herself as _Jennifer,_ and Nick found he liked the sound of it, liked the way the name seemed to suit her, better than _Trish_ ever had done. _Jennifer, then,_ he thought, grinning.

"Nick Buchanan," he told her. She nodded as he said it, and he could almost hear her thoughts whirring. Every day they'd spent together he'd wanted to tell her his real name, wanted to hear her call him _Nick._ He knew she'd wanted that, too, that she'd hated _Trish_ and _Wesley._ She had the truth of him, now; did she like the sound of his real name as much as he liked hers? _What the bloody hell are we supposed to do now?_

Emma answered that question; she scooped up several of the margaritas, and Jennifer grabbed the rest, and the ladies made their way out of the room. As she went Jennifer passed close by him, almost close enough to touch, close enough for him to catch the faintest scent of her perfume, and he wondered if she'd done it on purpose, if she wanted to draw in close to him, or if it had been subconscious, the manifestation of the old habits that had drawn them into one another's orbit, or if it meant nothing at all, now. Everyone was in the dining room and it wouldn't do to linger, but for just a moment Nick watched her from the kitchen, watched her bending and reaching as she passed out the drinks, laughing with her mates, watched her and wondered where they would go from here. He didn't yet know, but he couldn't wait to find out.


	5. Chapter 5

_2 August 2004_

As Wesley pulled the car to a stop Jen sat staring silently out the window, looking up at the house that would be theirs, now.

She'd seen the evidence photos taken when the real Trish and Wesley were first arrested, seen the long inventories of their belongings and various financial holdings. Their previous home - the home the real Claybournes had lived in - had been a massive, sprawling behemoth of modern architecture, stuffed to the gills with artwork and custom built furniture. For some reason when Jen imagined the house she'd be living in now, the house set aside for them by SIS, she'd thought it would be much the same; the Claybournes had a reputation to live up to, didn't they?

The house she was looking at now was neither massive nor expensive; it was situated on the outskirts of one of Sydney's most desirable neighborhoods, and certainly must have cost twice as much as Jen's little bungalow, but it just looked... _normal._ White siding, black roof, navy shutters, enough room on the drive for two cars to park side-by-side, flowers planted along the pavement leading to the front door. It looked less like the sort of mansion that would belong to two wealthy, criminal shipping magnates and more like...well, like a _home._

"Seems nice," Wesley said as he killed the engine and pocketed the keys.

"Yeah," Jen answered. "It's just…"

It was just that looking at the house reminded Jen that she had abandoned her own life completely, that for the next month or two she would not be able to speak to her friends, or her mother, would not be allowed to sit at her desk, or snuggle with her cat. It was just that looking at that house reminded Jen that she and Wesley were meant to be _married,_ and they would have to share everything with one another, and the very thought of it terrified her. How could she possibly explain this to him, to a man she had only known for a bare few hours? She was supposed to trust him with her very life, and she had no idea where to start, but she was fairly sure that confessing to her trepidation where he was concerned would not get their life together off on the right foot.

"Expecting something more impressive?" Wesley asked with an easy grin.

"Well, yeah." It was a start, at least. The sight of the house had thrown her, and surely it would be easier to discuss their living quarters than the fact of their marriage. Jen reached absently for the diamond ring sparkling on her finger, which Wesley had placed there only that morning, his face serious and not at all reassuring; she turned that ring round and round beneath her fingertips, and wondered how the hell she'd gotten herself mixed up in all of this.

"SIS told me about it. They keep a couple of properties around the country for operations like this. Apparently it used to belong to some kind of mafia boss. It's been empty ever since, but they promised me they'd clean it up for us."

The house did not have the most auspicious provenance, then. Another criminal had lived here once, a real one, and his home had been seized by the government when he was taken down. Idly Jen wondered if that was where the car had come from, too. And the clothes; she had a suitcase full of the kind of garish pieces only wealthy women could get away with wearing, all her smart suits and sensible pumps locked up at home. All the little pieces that made up a life had been provided for her, but none of them were _hers._ Her life wasn't her own, any more.

"Come on, then," Wesley said, and his voice spurred Jen into action. They stepped out of the car together, and even though no one was walking along the pavement, even though no cars passed them by, even though it was the middle of the morning on a Monday and surely most all the neighbors were at work, she could not help but feel as if there were eyes peering out from every window, watching her every move. She felt oddly exposed; her heart began to flutter as Wesley opened the boot, retrieved both their suitcases and came to stand beside her.

"Welcome home, sweetheart," he said.

Jen was fairly certain he was teasing her. He wasn't smiling, exactly, but the corners of his eyes had crinkled up, and his expression seemed warm. Maybe he felt it, too, that sense that they were being watched; maybe he had decided to go ahead and start the show now, while they stood together on the drive. They were meant to be married, starting their lives over fresh in a new city, building their business empire, and if they were just an ordinary couple, about to walk into their new home for the first time, maybe he would have called his wife _sweetheart._ Maybe Jen would just have to get used to it.

By unspoken agreement they moved, then; Wesley was carrying both their bags, so Jen reached into her purse and retrieved the key she'd been given at SIS headquarters that morning. She walked up the pavement, past the flowers, up the two short steps to her new front door. She unlocked it, swung the door wide, and stepped inside for the first time.

The door opened into the foyer, and Jen saw that a little table had been set just inside the door, a set of hooks installed in the wall just above it, and so she hung up her purse, and let her feet carry her into the house. The foyer led to a large sitting room, already furnished with a sofa, several armchairs, and a large tv. The kitchen and dining room were off to the right, and a short corridor led to the bedrooms on the left. On the far wall of the sitting room two french doors opened onto a small garden, surrounded by a tall wooden fence. The flooring was made to look like wood, though the sound of Jen's shoes against it revealed it to be no more than laminate. The walls were white, and bare.

It _was_ clean, SIS had told the truth about that. But it was so clean as to be almost sterile, utterly lacking in character. _No one will believe this is a real house,_ Jen thought, looking around. What furniture there was all matched; the grey upholstery on the sofas and the armchairs, the tables beneath the tv and at the sides of the sofa made from the same dark brown pressboard. There was a bookshelf in one corner, with absolutely nothing on it. It looked ready made, contrived, hollow, and Jen was beginning to feel that way herself.

"Needs a rug," Wesley said, and Jen jumped at the sound of his voice; she hadn't heard him approach. She turned to face him, and saw him looking out across the sitting room speculatively.

"And some throw pillows," Jen said.

Were they making a shopping list already? It seemed like a terribly domestic sort of thing to be doing. It seemed...natural.

SIS had given them a credit card, to stock the fridge and keep the car in petrol until the business was profitable. No one was allowed to know that Wesley and Trish weren't who they said they were, and that meant Claybourne Shipping would be run like any other outfit, and its founders would draw paychecks. The money would be put into an account for them, but Abdul had warned her to save her receipts; _you buy what you need to survive, but remember, all that money belongs to the government, in the end. Don't go crazy with it._

"I'm just going to put these down," Wesley said, looking pointedly at the two heavy suitcases he still held, and then he turned away from her, and Jen followed after, curious and yet anxious, somehow. He was heading for the bedrooms - or was it _bedroom_? She had wondered about that more than once, wondered if she would be forced to sleep beside him, if she would not be allowed one moment's privacy, if she could manage to share a bed with him and not go stark raving mad from the constant sensation of being watched.

The corridor off the sitting room revealed three doorways. Wesley had stepped through the first, on the left, and Jen peeked through the open doorway behind him. There was one bed, more than big enough for two people to sleep together comfortably, the same color as the furniture in the sitting room, covered in a white doona. There were two matching dressers, and two matching tables either side of the bed, and two doors that opened onto a massive closet. There was another door, leading no doubt to an en suite. Jen cataloged it all quickly, her heart racing while Wesley slung their suitcases onto the bed. This was the master suite, then, no doubt intended for a man and his wife to share. Rather than look at Wesley and that bed at the same time Jen turned away, and went to explore the other doors.

The next room she found had clearly been intended as an office; there was a desk and a computer already set up, and two more empty bookshelves. _We'll have to do something about that,_ she thought; if Hartono or any of his associates ever had cause to visit Trish and Wesley at home no doubt they would notice those empty shelves at once, and be suspicious on account of them. A visit to a secondhand shop seemed to be in order. To her relief, however, the office boasted one more piece of furniture that would serve to put her fears to rest; there was a daybed pushed against the far wall. It wasn't much, but it would do for her purposes.

"Office?" Wesley asked, and Jen jumped again.

"Do you have to do that?" she snapped. She immediately regretted taking that tone with him, but her nerves were frayed, and he wasn't helping.

"Do what?" he asked, leaning against the doorway. He didn't seem offended, or dismissive. He just seemed like... he seemed like _Wesley_. Calm, cool, unbothered. _Is he always like this?_ She wondered.

"Sneak up on me." She felt childish even saying it, but he still made her uncomfortable, somehow. Oh, he hadn't done anything wrong, had been nothing but polite to her from the moment they met, but he was just always... _there_.

"I'll try to make more noise in the future," he said. He was almost smiling.

"I think I'm going to sleep in here, if that's all right."

 _If that's all right?_ Jen was shocked by her own deferential tone; ordinarily she did not hesitate to state her needs simply and plainly, did not wait for other people to give her permission. Why had she gone and done that? She'd said _if that's all right;_ what if he said it wasn't?

 _Then you'll know he's a prick,_ she thought.

Wesley was frowning, now; strange, how his face could change so little, and yet convey so much meaning. Strange, how quickly she was learning to read him.

"You should have the master," he said. "I can kip in here."

This man seemed determined to surprise her. She had thought, when she caught sight of his frown, that he was disappointed by her not wanting to sleep with him, but instead he had gone and offered her the bigger bed. He had, without hesitation, agreed to let her have her own private space, and not only that, he had offered her the better accommodations without blinking.

"It's too small for you," she said, trying not to smile at the thought of Wesley folding all his long limbs into the little daybed. He really was quite tall, and seemed doubly so when he stood close to her, when she was forced to look up into his warm, dark eyes. "You take the master. I'll be fine in here."

For a moment she thought he might protest further, but Wesley rather elegantly let the subject drop.

"There's another bathroom at the end of the hall," he said, gesturing vaguely back down the corridor. "That one can be yours, if you like."

"Good," she answered. "Thanks."

It was good, she thought, to have that sorted, to know she wouldn't have to jockey with him at the same sink, wouldn't have to fight with him over the toilet or the shower. It was good to know that she would have a bed to herself, and a door she could close, even if all her clothes would have to by necessity be kept in the room where he slept. It was good, and Jen was relieved, but a part of her felt, not disappointment exactly, but something akin to it. They would be more like roommates than anything else, sharing the same space but keeping to separate sides, trying to stay out of one another's way. It seemed like a painful way to live, but she could see no other alternatives, at present.

"Have you found any cameras, yet?" Wesley asked, casting his eyes over the room.

"Any _what?"_ she demanded, whirling on him at once, outraged by the very idea.

Wesley laughed, but Jen didn't find anything funny about the suggestion of her new home being under constant surveillance.

"Abdul told me," he explained. "There's cameras in every room. Mics, too. He says they probably won't be monitoring it while it's just us here, but he wanted me to be aware."

Something else Wesley knew that she didn't, something else Abdul had felt warranted his attention, but not hers. What possible reason could there be for that? She wondered. Why keep her in the dark, and tell Wesley everything? And why did she resent him for it? It wasn't as if it was his fault.

"Not every room, surely," she said, thinking about the bathroom at the end of the corridor. Her blood had begun to boil at the very idea of such an invasion, at the sudden realization that she was going to be even more closely observed than she'd previously imagined. _What the bloody hell have I gotten myself into?_ She wondered.

"Not the bathrooms," Wesley agreed. "I'm gonna make a cuppa. Do you want one?"

For a moment Jen just stared at him. He had just rather calmly announced that they were to be under round the clock surveillance, their every word and action played out on a screen somewhere, to be watched whenever the powers that be felt like checking in on them. They were standing in a house that had once belonged to a mafia man, surrounded by cheap furniture and empty shelves, on the cusp of risking their very lives infiltrating a ring of gun runners and terrorists. And Wesley wanted to make a cuppa.

It seemed like the most ridiculous thing in the world to Jen, but as she tried to find some way to articulate her distress, it occurred to her that she didn't know what else they were supposed to do. They weren't due in the office until Friday, weren't due to meet Hartono until the following weekend. No further orders had come down from on high, and there were no books to read, no friends to call, nowhere to go.

"Yeah, all right," she said.


	6. Chapter 6

_4 September 2009_

"I think I'm going to call it a night," Jen said, rising gracefully from the table. Nick held his breath; with every piece of himself he longed to follow after her, but he knew he needed to be careful, needed to take things slow. He couldn't go chasing off after her into the night; it would arouse suspicion in their friends, and might even offend her, if he pushed for too much too quickly. Come Monday they would be working on the same team; they had all the time in the world, and he tried to remind himself of that as he watched her gathering up her handbag and her keys. She wasn't about to disappear into the ether once more; it would be forty-eight hours before he saw her again, not four years. _Just be patient,_ he told himself.

"Yeah, come on, Si, let's get you home," Duncan said, following Jen's lead and tugging Simon onto his feet. Si was pouting; he reached for his glass, found it empty, and sighed. Duncan had the right of that, Nick thought; Simon had drunk more than all of them, and he was starting to show it.

"I guess that's me gone, too," Allie added, and just like that Nick found that the perfect opportunity had been presented to him. Jen wasn't out the door just yet; she lingered by the table, talking quietly to Emma. Maybe if they all left at once no one would notice if Nick and Jen hung back. Maybe if they all left now, no one would think to question where they'd gone, after.

"Yeah, I'm knackered." Nick rose to his feet, and offered his hand to Matt. "Thanks for having us, mate."

"Any time," Matt told him cheerfully, his voice a bit too loud and his face a bit too red after one margarita too many.

Everyone was talking; everyone was saying goodbye, and Duncan was trying to haul Simon out the door, and Allie was teasing them both, and Emma had started to carry the empty glasses into the kitchen; there would never be a better moment than this one, he thought.

"Oi, Jen," he said softly, and she drew close to him, ignoring the ruckus all around them.

"I was thinking I ought to give you my number," he said. "So you'll have it come Monday. For work."

Jen grinned at him, quick and bright, and he knew then that she'd seen straight through him. Perhaps it was a little obvious, but this way he could, once again, leave the decision up to her. If she wanted to call him, to speak to him away from the crew, to give them a chance to get their stories straight before they went back to work, she could. And if she'd rather not see him at all, well, then her silence would speak for her.

"Yeah, all right," she said, fishing her mobile out of her handbag and pressing a few buttons. "What is it?"

Nick gave it to her, watched her fingertips dancing across the screen, and tried to temper the sudden surge of hope he felt, knowing that now she'd have a way to call him, if she wished, knowing that they were really truly in this, now, and no going back.

"I'll text you," she said, still looking at her mobile. "That way you'll have my number, too."

As she dropped the phone into her bag Nick felt his own vibrate in his back pocket, heralding an incoming message.

"Thanks," he told her softly. Too softly, maybe, but he couldn't help it; just looking at her face warmed his heart, and he was finding it harder by the second to pretend they were strangers.

"Have a good night, Nick," she said, and with one last goodbye for Matt she turned and departed. Nick waited until she was out of sight before reaching for his phone, checking the message he sent her, and he could not help the grin that split his face as he read it.

It was an address.

That was all, no context, no suggestion, no invitation. Just a house number, and a street name, but he recognized it for what it was at once. It was _her_ address, and she was asking him to come round, and his heart gave a great leap in his chest at the very thought. Did she mean _now?_ He wondered. Late on a Friday, when they'd had two drinks apiece over the course of several hours, so soon after being reunited with one another? Was she as eager to see him as he was eager for her, could she not bear the thought of waiting another moment longer, after so many years apart? The very idea of it delighted him, and he resolved to go to hers straight away, nevermind the lateness of the hour, nevermind all the potential for disaster inherent in such a plan. She had asked for him, and he could deny her nothing.

* * *

As Nick walked up the pavement towards Jen's little house he could not help but recall the day they'd first stepped foot inside their new home five years before. She had been anxious, he recalled, and their early interactions had been painfully awkward, pointedly polite and yet dripping with uncertainty. That house had not been a home, not at first; it had been no more than a shell, and it was Trish - _Jen,_ he reminded himself - who had brought it to life. They'd grown used to one another, and she'd bought a mishmash of brightly colored pillows for the sofa and somehow they had grown from strangers to partners, from partners to friends, from friends to...whatever the bloody hell it was that they had been. And all of it had happened there, in that little house, the home that had been theirs, once.

Jen's house was different; it sported a neat little porch, and the flowerbeds were in need of tending. It looked older, more lived in than the Claybourne house had done, wasn't anywhere near as flash, but Nick liked the look of it, just the same. The best part, he thought, was that she had left a light on by her front door. Waiting for him, he thought, though he had not responded to her text, had not warned her that he was coming. For a moment he worried that he had overstepped, that he had misunderstood her request, but that little light offered him some comfort; surely, he thought, she would not have left it on if she had not been expecting him.

As he reached the front door he knocked once, and then shifted his grip on the half-empty case of beer he held balanced on his hip. They'd mostly drunk tequila, at Matt's, and though ordinarily he would have left the remaining beer in the fridge as a sort of host gift he had opted to take it with him, instead, so that he and Jen might have something to keep themselves occupied while they got reacquainted with one another.

The door swung open in a moment, and Nick smiled softly at the sight of her face. She was still wearing the same blouse, the same soft black trousers, but her feet were bare and her blonde hair fell loose and gentle around her face.

"Hi," she said, smiling.

"Hi," he answered, just as he had done when they stumbled across one another in the kitchen. Having not had the chance to say so much as _Hi_ to her for the last four years, though, Nick didn't mind the repetition.

"Come in," she said, stepping back and gesturing for him to join her in the house, and so he did, standing there looking round her foyer with a detective's eye for detail. There was some art on the walls, and a large, gilt-framed mirror hung above an art-deco entry table, Jen's shoes stowed underneath it, but no sign that anyone else lived there, which comforted him more than he wanted to admit. She locked the door behind him and then set off deeper into the house, and Nick followed after her; they passed the bedroom on the left, the door open just far enough for him to see her bed. The sheets were a mess, and that made him smile; it had always been Nick who made the bed, before. She'd never seen much point in it, she told him, and he supposed some things never changed.

The corridor opened up, kitchen to the left, sitting room to the right, and it was there Jen led him. There was more art here, mostly abstract pieces, bright splashes of color to liven up the pale white walls, and that made him smile, too, for he knew that Jen dabbled a bit in painting as a hobby, and he wondered whether she had created any of those pieces herself. There was a perfectly serviceable sofa and two mismatched armchairs gathered around a low wooden coffee table, and it was there Nick plunked down the case of beer while Jen stood just to the side, not sitting, yet, but watching him.

"Drink?" he asked her.

"Yeah, thanks."

He pulled out two bottles, neatly twisted off the tops, tucked the caps in his pocket, and handed her one of the bottles while he kept the other for himself.

"Cheers," he said.

Jen clinked her bottle against his.

"Cheers," she answered.

Silence, then, as they both took a drink, watching each other. For months now all Nick could think about was seeing her again, speaking to her, hearing her voice, sharing his space with her, learning how she had fared over the last four years, learning whether there was any feeling at all left between them or if it had been driven out with the last of the adrenaline from the op, but now that he stood looking at her he hardly knew what to say.

"Go on, then," she said, flopping into one of the armchairs. Nick took the other for himself, and settled into it with a sigh.

"You knew I was going to be there tonight," she said, watching him over the rim of her beer. Her tone wasn't accusatory, exactly, but he heard the question beneath it.

"Yeah," he said. Yeah, he'd known, and no, she hadn't, and yeah, maybe that was unfair, but it had brought them here to this, and Nick couldn't bring himself to regret it.

"How did you find me?"

He had promised her he would, once, and she had never believed he could, he knew. And yet, still, somehow, he had managed it. Did that please her? He wondered. He hoped it did.

"Wolfie offered me your job," he said, and she laughed, and he relaxed infinitesimally. "And then I saw you on the lifts. With Dunny."

"And you took the job anyway?" She arched her eyebrow at him, teasing, and he smiled.

"It seemed like the right thing to do." It had, at the time, seemed like the _only_ thing to do, and the way Jen was watching him now only reassured him that he had made the right choice, that they deserved this chance, that she was as determined to take as was he.

"I'm glad."

"Yeah?" he asked, hopefully.

"Yeah," she answered, softly.

* * *

After five more beers for him, and three more for her, they were both a bit looser than they had been in the beginning, and they had somehow wound up sitting side-by-side on the sofa, their feet propped up on the coffee table, their shoulders brushing as they laughed, and talked, and drank, and remembered. It had always been like this, he recalled; they had always gravitated towards one another, no matter how hard they tried to maintain their distance. There was something about her, her smile, her fierce spirit, that made him want to be near her, when Nick had spent most of his life not wanting to be near anyone at all. It was nice, in a strange, dangerous sort of way, to find himself in her orbit once more.

"I still have it, you know," Nick said.

Jen was leaning far back against the sofa, half-asleep by the looks of her, but as she spoke she turned her head, caught his eye. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes were so blue, and... _Christ,_ she was lovely.

"Yeah?" she asked, surprised.

"Yeah," he answered.

Yeah, he still had it, the painting she had made for him in the early days of their marriage. Well, perhaps she had not made it _for_ him, but she had gifted it to him, in a way, placed it in his hands and let him decide whether they should hang it up, and where. It had taken pride of place in the foyer, by Nick's own choice, so that every time they walked through the front door it was the first thing they saw. It hung by the door in Nick's own house, now.

"How'd you manage that?"

It was a fair question; they'd been arrested along with the rest of Hartono's crew in a bust at the dockyards, and neither of them had stepped foot in the house again; there had been no time for packing, let alone taking souvenirs.

"I asked Abdul for it," he said .

Jen frowned.

"What?" he asked. He thought she'd find it endearing, that he had asked after her painting, _the_ painting, that he had wanted to keep that memory of their time together, and he couldn't understand why the thought seemed to have made her cross instead.

"He always liked you more than me," she grumbled.

"That old chestnut," Nick said, trying not to laugh. She'd complained about that often, he recalled now. In the beginning Nick had known more about the nuts and bolts of the operation - where the house had come from, the fact that it was bugged, the logistics of running the company - and Jen had bristled at being left out.

"He did!" she insisted, the beer making her more excitable than usual. "He told you everything and he kept me in the dark."

"Did you ever ask him for anything?" Nick answered lightly. From where he was standing it seemed to him that had always been the problem; he had asked about the house, and he had asked about the business, and he had seen enough spy movies to ask about the cameras. Jen had read the reports cover to cover, and memorized every word, but it was Nick who had gone looking for all the little details not contained within those pages. She was a few years younger than he, and while neither of them had done intelligence work before he knew now that he had been a cop longer than she had, and she had still been eager to prove herself, back then. That dichotomy had created a symmetry to their approach, at least to his mind, but it had left Jen feeling out of the loop. Maybe it wasn't fair, to tease her about it now.

"No," she answered, pouting. He'd been right, then; maybe if she'd asked, Abdul would have let her keep something. But what would she have asked for? What piece of their new life would she have wanted to carry back into her old one? Or would she have wanted anything at all?

Maybe it was the beer, that made him bold. Maybe it was the old familiar feeling of sitting alone on a sofa with her, getting drunk on a Friday night with nothing better to do. Maybe it was the years he'd spent missing her; maybe he'd built it all up in his head, made the feelings between them seem bigger, deeper than they were until he loved her memory now as much as he had loved her self then. Maybe it was just a longing for connection; whatever it was, _something_ made him reach for her then, his fingertips trailing against her cheek the way they had done so many times in the past. At the touch of his hand Jen sighed, and her eyes fluttered closed.

"I missed you," she sighed, sleepy and honest and drunk all at the same time.

Nick hummed; he couldn't quite find the words to say, to capture what he felt in that moment.

"How could I miss someone I never knew?"

That was a question Nick had asked himself many, many times. He had never known her name, or where she came from, had never known about her family or her job. He had never known if she'd gone to university, or where, had never known so many things he could hardly keep track of them all. When their year was over, when he'd returned home without her, he hadn't been allowed to talk about her with anyone, hadn't been able to share his stories, had been forced to carry the ghost of her with him in his heart, in silence. It was as if she'd never existed, but if she'd never existed, how then could he explain the memories of her, of her voice, her lips, her skin soft beneath his hands, of the way she had touched his heart, and left him utterly changed?

"I think you know me better than anyone else in the world," he whispered in the stillness between them.

It was true, he knew it was true. Nick had never been much a one for _sharing_ , and though he'd bedded women here and there none of them had stuck around long; he was too quiet for them, he worked too much, they never knew what he was thinking, he was no _fun._ Always the same complaints, over and over, and he never much missed them when they were gone. Jen, though, Jen had been different. When Jen looked at him she _saw_ him, and she'd never complained about him not talking enough; he couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut, around her. Couldn't seem to hide anything from her, and never really wanted to, anyway. She might not have known his name, but she had known _him,_ and it seemed important to him now to make that distinction.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled at him sadly. Maybe it was pathetic, to confess such a thing to a woman he had not seen in four years, a woman he had only known for thirteen months, a lifetime ago, but it had been true, just the same.

"Bedtime, I think," he said. It was late, and she was drunk, and he was not far behind, and whatever this was, he got the sense it was too dangerous to be explored under such conditions. They would have to work together, come Monday, and he knew that her job was too important for her to risk damaging her professional life just for his sake. Rule number one, everybody knew, was _don't screw the crew,_ and while Nick knew in his heart he would have no problem breaking that particular rule, especially for her sake, he suspected she would feel differently, in the sober light of dawn.

She pouted, and he laughed, rose from the sofa and held out his hand to her. She took it, let him haul her up off the sofa, but she was sleepy and boneless from booze and the shock of the evening, and she swayed against him as she stood.

"Come on, then," he murmured to her softly, and together they made their way back to her bedroom, slowly, clinging to one another. In the daylight he might have paid more attention to his surroundings, the color of her duvet, the shambles of her closet, but as it was he had eyes only for her, small and soft and warm beneath his arm. Carefully he set her down on the edge of the bed, watched with his heart in his throat as she yanked off her blouse and revealed the skin-tight vest she wore underneath. The moment she was free of her shirt Jen laid back against her pillows, sighing, and he smiled down at her, recalling a hundred nights when she had fallen into bed, and he had laid down beside her, content.

"Wes," she said, reaching out for him blindly, apparently unable to keep her eyes open and their names straight anymore.

"Right here, sweetheart," he said, taking her hand and holding it tight. It was a term of endearment from a different life, a word he'd never be able to use with her come Monday, but she'd called him _Wes,_ and they were both tired, and the lines between what _was_ and what _used to be_ were growing fuzzier by the second.

"Stay with me," she mumbled, already on the verge of sleep.

"I don't think-"

"Please?"

Who was he to deny her? She was beautiful, and he was tired, and he'd drunk too much to drive, anyway, and what was the point in calling a taxi to take him home if he'd just have to come back in the morning to retrieve his car? It would hardly be the first time they'd shared a bed, after all.

 _And I missed her, too,_ he thought.

"All right," he said. "All right."

Jen smiled, and Nick kicked off his shoes.


	7. Chapter 7

_2 August 2004_

On their first night in their new home Trish and Wesley Claybourne sat together at their small dining room table, passing cartons of Chinese takeaway back and forth while they mulled over a stack of business records.

"So, what are you meant to be doing while I'm in the office all day?" Wesley asked her good-naturedly. Jen held out her hand, and without prompting he passed her the fried rice.

"In the beginning, I'll be going in, too," she told him. Carefully she scooped up a glob of rice with her chopsticks, grinning as she watched Wesley twirl his fork through the lo mein. As they sat down to eat he had confessed that he couldn't actually manage chopsticks very well, and Jen had taken an almost childish delight in that revelation. She had finally found something Wesley didn't already know how to do, some area where he wasn't naturally talented; the matter could not have been more trivial, but she counted it as a win just the same. The man was alarmingly capable, and this failure, however small, seemed to humanize him in a way.

"Wesley is the face of the operation, but Trish is the brains. She'll run the accounting staff."

" _You'll_ run the accounting staff," Wesley corrected her gently.

Jen frowned. He was right, she knew; the time had come for her to set Jennifer Mapplethorpe aside. She _was_ Trish Claybourne, now.

"I'll run the accounting staff," she amended. "Eventually, once we've made some connections and I feel more comfortable leaving my people unsupervised I'll drop back to half-days, so I can get to know some of the other wives. Pillow talk can be worth its weight in gold, and rich, bored ladies tend to get loose when they're drinking with their friends."

Wesley hummed in agreement. A two-pronged approach would be best; Wesley could hobnob and play golf with the boys, and Trish would go for manicures and mimosas with the girls, and at the end of every day they could compare notes. Hartono and his crew tended towards the conservative side, and they'd want to do business with a man, and not his wife. No matter how talented she was, no matter how good she was at her job, in her experience respect often came down to a matter of biology. It was just as offensive coming from gun runners and thugs as it was coming from the brass at the State Police.

"It's a good plan," Jen said, mostly just looking for some way to fill the silence that had fallen between them. She'd only met this man the day before, but already she could tell he wasn't big on small talk. Ordinarily Jen would have approved of that particular trait, being not overly fond of it herself, but just now she didn't want to be left alone with only her own thoughts for company. SIS had turned several people in key positions within Claybourne Shipping, had made sure the company would run smoothly and according to their wishes, successfully, while Jen and her Wesley were at the helm, that it would appear for all intents and purposes to be a genuine operation. Truth be told there wasn't that much for Jen and Wesley to _do,_ at least not until they made contact with Hartono, and that wouldn't happen until Saturday.

"What are we going to do in the meantime, then?" Wesley asked, stabbing his fork into the sesame chicken.

They weren't due in the office until Friday, and then there was the all-important party on Saturday. Before then, though, their calendar was completely empty. Three whole days, and four whole nights, for them to spend however they chose, familiarizing themselves with the house, with Sydney, with each other. Three days had never seemed as long to Jen as it did now.

"I was thinking I might pop round to the shops tomorrow," she said. "We need a few things for the house."

"I'll come with you," Wesley told her around a mouthful of chicken. Jen hoped his appalling display of poor manners was a reflection of how comfortable he was around her already, and not a personal hallmark of his. Somehow she didn't think Mohammed Hartono would approve of a business partner who talked with his mouth full.

"You don't have to," Jen said half-heartedly. She knew it was pointless; no doubt he'd already made up his mind, and no doubt whatever reasoning he intended to give her was more sound than whatever protests she could muster to the contrary. There was Wesley, with a plan for everything, certain about everything, and then there was Jen, floundering, and very much longing for a few minutes to spend by herself; he'd win, in the end.

"If you're going to spend all my money I want a vote on what you get."

Her eyes flashed towards his face, incensed, but she saw that he was grinning, and her ire departed as quickly as it had come. He'd only been teasing her, she could see that now; he had no intention of controlling the purse strings, and had only said it to make her smile.

"Besides, it's the sort of thing couples do together, isn't it? Buying rugs and throw pillows?"

It was the sort of thing _happy_ couples did together, Jen thought, and in order for this to work she and her Wesley would need to present a united front in all things, would need to give every appearance of being a strong team, madly in love with one another.

"I suppose it is," she allowed. There were other things couples did together that Jen didn't even want to think about just now, not when she was sharing a meal with this man. The matter of their sleeping arrangements had been settled gracefully, allowing them both a bit of privacy, a bit of space, but outside the house -

"We should probably talk about the rest of it," Wesley told her then.

"Rest of what?"

He gave her a pointed look, and Jen could not help but blush. His thoughts must have run the same course as hers, she realized; he was thinking about their impending couplehood, too, and how best to play the part of happy lovers while keeping their personal feelings out of it.

"Physical contact, terms of endearment, that sort of thing," Wesley explained after a moment. "If we decide how to handle it now, neither of us will be surprised while we're out there."

He had a point; best get those details settled in advance. The problem was that Jen didn't have any answers for him; most of the relationships she'd undertaken in her adult life had been more or less confined to the bedroom. She hadn't introduced the men she was sleeping with to her friends, hadn't attended parties on their arms, hadn't even gone to the shops with any of them, really. Those were the sorts of things people in more permanent arrangements did together, and Jen had never been committed enough to a man to learn the steps of that dance herself.

"You've called me _sweetheart_ already," she said haltingly. It was just so bloody _strange_ , reducing the intimate nuances of a romantic relationship to a practical conversation over rice and noodles. "I think that's all right."

"Baby?" he asked.

It took her a second to understand his meaning, and then she crinkled up her nose in disgust, and he barked out a laugh.

"No _baby,_ then," he said. "Honey, maybe? Hon?"

"Honey's all right." _Sweetheart, honey;_ they were soft words, gentle words, praising but not possessive. Jen liked them rather more than she thought she would, and she liked him for suggesting them.

"Do you have a nickname?" he asked.

" _Trish_ is already a nickname," she pointed out.

"Is it short for something? I thought that was just her name - your name."

"Short for Patricia," she told him. "No one names their daughter just _Trish._ It'd be like naming a boy just _Nick,_ instead of Nicholas. It's silly."

A strange expression flickered in the depths of Wesley's eyes for a moment, but it was gone before Jen could identify it. Had she touched a nerve? She wondered. Did he have some name like that, _Tim_ instead of _Timothy,_ or something, and felt insulted but unable to defend himself given that they were sworn not to reveal their real names? What _was_ his real name, anyway?

"Maybe he calls her something else, though," Wesley mused after a moment. "Something personal."

"You can't just invent a nickname for her. If it comes up naturally I'll go along with it-" _as long as it isn't something stupid,_ she added in her mind - "but for now I think we're set, for pet names."

"What will you call me, then?" He was smiling, again, teasing her again, and Jen forced herself to meet his gaze, and not look away.

"I think _sweetheart_ would be all right for you, too." He nodded, and so she continued. "Maybe _Wes,_ sometimes."

"Yeah, that'd be all right."

They'd be _Trish_ and _Wes_ , then, _sweetheart_ and _honey_ ; it was good to have that settled, she thought. Now she could start using those words with him, starting acclimating herself to the strange new sensation of sharing her life with another person.

"Can I hold your hand?" he asked after a moment.

She knew what she wanted to say; she wanted to say _no._ She didn't want to hold hands with a stranger, didn't want to feel as if he were leading her around wherever they went. She didn't want to feel tethered to him, beholden to him, dependent on him, but he wasn't asking how Jen felt about it; he was asking how _Trish_ might feel about it. They both knew the answer already; Trish would want to hold her husband's hand. Trish would reach for him, and he for her, and if they were going to pull this off Jen couldn't withdraw from him.

"I think that would be all right," she said. "Whatever comes naturally. I'll let you decide. But the first time your hand comes anywhere near my ass…"

She left it hanging, a hollow threat; she couldn't follow up on it, and she knew it. Whatever he chose to do out there, she'd have to grin and bear it. She only hoped he'd have sense enough not to push too far; his handling of the bedroom situation gave her hope, as he had been respectful and obliging in that regard, but it was still just their first day, and she hardly knew him at all.

"Understood," he said. It wasn't a tease, this time, wasn't accompanied by a knowing look in his eyes; his expression was serious, and she knew then that he had heard her, and agreed to her terms, and she was grateful for it. "We're supposed to know these people in a professional capacity. I think Wesley will keep his hands to himself. For the most part."

"Good," Jen said. It was good, to have that settled, to know he wasn't the sort to take advantage. With each passing second she found she liked her new husband more and more.

Across the table Wesley stabbed his fork into a different container, and Jen flinched. At this rate, he was going to poke holes in the bottom of the flimsy paper boxes, and they'd make a mess of the fridge if they tried to store their leftovers. That simply wouldn't do.

"Here," she said, and before he could ask what she was doing she rose from her chair and snatched his unopened packet of chopsticks off the table. "Let me show you."

Wesley did not protest, when she pulled his fork out of his hands, only sat still and watching her, quiet and thoughtful, the way he seemed to be, most of the time. Too late Jen realized that her impromptu lesson would require her to stand quite close to him, her hip brushing against his arm as they moved; too late she found herself reaching for his hands and wondering if she was making a mistake.

"Like this," she said. She slipped the chopsticks between his fingers, guided his hand where it needed to go. The room was suddenly, painfully quiet; Wesley was a good student, not objecting to the way she was handling him, trying to follow her directions, but he was not speaking, and neither was she, as she arranged his long, thick fingers on the chopsticks. He was warm; she could feel the heat radiating off him, standing beside him like this, and she could almost catch the scent of his cologne, and his hands were strong and capable, and her fingertips ran across his skin, delighted, and -

"Try that," she said, needing some way to ease the tension that had begun to wind itself tight as a spring within her chest. Together their hands moved towards the sesame chicken, captured a piece with the chopsticks, lifted it slowly towards his mouth. His eyes caught hers, dark and warm, and _oh,_ she really shouldn't be doing this, but he had just been so nice, and maybe -

The chicken tumbled out of their combined grip and landed with a plop in his lap.

Wesley laughed.

"I'm hopeless, sweetheart," he said softly.

Jen dropped his hand abruptly and scampered back around to her side of the table.

"Practice makes perfect," she said primly as she settled into her seat. "You'll get better. Sweetheart."


	8. Chapter 8

_4 September 2009_

She woke first, in the end. It was not entirely unexpected; she'd always been an uneasy sleeper, his Trish. The last to drift off, the first to wake in the morning, tossing and turning all night long, or at least until Nick grew sleepy enough and disgruntled enough to wrap his arm around her, and still the endless fidgeting of her body with his own heavy bulk. That trick had always worked for him in the past, and it would seem it worked now, too, because when Jen rolled over to face him, jostling him awake in the process, he found that they were very close together, and his arm was still draped across her hip.

"Morning," he said, his voice scratchy from sleep. He was tired, and his back hurt from sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, and he desperately needed a piss, but she was _here_ , Trish/Jen/ _her,_ lying next to him, looking up at him with the brightest, bluest eyes he'd ever seen.

"Morning," she answered, softly.

Despite the intimacy of their current position their night together had been perfectly innocent; Nick still wore his trunks and his vest, and Jen still wore her vest and her stretchy black trousers. The makeup around her eyes was smudged, and her hair was a tousled mess of loose blonde waves, and she was _beautiful,_ for all that, soft and warm and quiet, next to him. She looked into his face, unblinking; was she thinking, as he was, how lucky they were to have found one another? How precious a gift they'd been given, how uncertain their future might be? Nick wanted, very much, to believe that this was a good thing, that they could work together well and get to know one another once more and re-forge the old bond between them. He wanted, very much, to believe that she could be his friend, that they could be happy.

"We can't do this again," she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. There were no cameras, no microphones, no spooks watching their every move, no real reason to speak so quietly; perhaps old habits die hard, or perhaps she was just hesitant to give voice to her thoughts in the stillness of the morning.

"I know," he answered, but despite his immediate agreement he still bowed his head, let his lips brush against her forehead in a gentle kiss, the sort of kiss he had bestowed on her so many times before. She accepted the gesture with grace, not admonishing him for it; perhaps she understood.

No, they could not do _this_ again. They could not blur the lines between them, must start over fresh, as colleagues, as friends. Colleagues, friends, who did not share a bed, who did not use affectionate pet names for one another, who did not kiss one another. Four long years had passed since he'd last seen her face and he knew he could not expect to pick up exactly where they'd left off. Too much had changed; where they'd left off they'd been half-lovers, half-partners, shagging in the car and apologizing to one another for it later, swearing it would never happen again - until it did - trusting in no one and nothing save each other, every other word out of their mouths a lie. An expiration date had been stamped on them both, before, a ticking clock counting inexorably down until the moment when they must inevitably be parted, coloring their every interaction with the sorrowful desperation of impending separation. Not so, now. Now there was no end in sight, and they would have to be more measured with one another. Now a furious shag in a car would risk so much more than just a scolding; now it would risk both their careers, their futures. Maybe it would have been worth the risk, four years before, when he thought he knew her. Maybe it was still worth the risk now, but he was certain she would not agree, that she must surely think of him as a stranger, now.

"Nick," she said, softly, her palm ghosting along the length of his arm.

"Jen," he answered, reaching out to brush his fingertips against her cheek.

"I'm sorry I said your name was silly."

He laughed out loud; he would have kissed her again, but he knew the time for kisses had come and gone. How did she remember that? He wondered. It was one of their first conversations, just the two of them alone, and she'd said it would be silly, to name a child just _Nick,_ and not _Nicholas,_ not realizing, of course, that _his_ name was Nick, just Nick. He'd very nearly choked on his dinner when she said it, and that was why the memory had stuck in his mind; he'd wondered for some time after that if she did know his name, after all, and had only been trying to bait him. That wasn't the case, he could see that now. She really hadn't known, but she'd stumbled across the truth just the same.

"It's all right," he said. "Jennifer."

She smiled up at him, but did not speak; what thoughts were running through her mind, he wondered; what was she thinking, lying here next to him, hearing him speak her name aloud? For a time he just watched her while the sun rose higher behind the curtains, while they lingered there in her bed together, both of them knowing he should leave, neither making a move to change their situation. The moment he rose from that bed everything would change, he knew, and so he simply lay there, quietly, soaking in this last chance to be close to her. He could see in her eyes that something was on her mind, that she was working her way through some problem, trying to find the answer to some mysterious question, and so he let her think in peace, did not push her. She'd tell him, when she was ready; he knew she would, and so he waited, and then she did.

"Promise me we'll be careful, at work," she said.

"I promise," he answered at once. She frowned; maybe he'd spoken too quickly, maybe she didn't think he was being genuine.

"I mean it, Nick. I worked hard to get into Homicide. I put up with so much shit. It's all I've wanted for so long. But you're the senior detective, and you're the one they'll keep if it comes down to it."

She was right. _Don't screw the crew;_ it was an unwritten rule, not enshrined in law but defended by precedence. If two coppers on the same squad started shagging and were found out, the brass always gave them two options: either cut it out now, or one of you goes. There was no second warning; if they didn't stop, they'd both lose their place. Nick had seen it happen a fair number of times, over the years. It was almost inevitable; working long hours, spending more time with coworkers than friends or family members, tensions would reach a boiling point, and things just had a way of happening. It wouldn't be like that with Jen, he thought, just a mad scramble to relieve the building pressure of isolation and banish the memory of a grim case. It would be something special, with Jen, but that wouldn't matter to Wolfie and Jarvis and the rest.

Of course, he and Jen were rather more experienced at lying and hiding their personal lives than most other coppers, but he knew now was not the time to point that out. He'd only just met her again, and no matter how beautiful she was, no matter how good it felt to be lying next to her again, he knew it was too soon to start talking about risking careers. The job had to come first. It always did.

"It won't come to that," he said. "We only just met, yeah?"

"Yeah," she said. It was the truth, and it was a lie, and it was both at the same time.

"So we'll start over," he told her. "We'll work together, and that's that."

He'd forget how she took her tea, and how she wanted to collect every stray cat she saw, and how adorably outraged she could look when he was teasing her, and how she never slept unless he held her. He'd forget all of it, and start over fresh. For her sake, he would.

"I can't believe you were here all this time," she confessed in a small voice.

 _So much for forgetting,_ he thought.

"Neither can I."

It was unbelievable, to think that all he'd ever had to do was walk upstairs, and he could have found her. Four years before, when he was heartbroken and missing her the most, when their cleaving was still fresh in his mind, he could have stumbled across her at the cafe across the street from the station, or in the lifts. How different might things have been if he'd found her then? When they weren't on the same crew, when there were no regulations to worry about, no friends' feelings to consider, when they were just two people, bumping into each other quite by accident? Everything would have been different, he thought; _everything_. If only they'd had a chance to reconnect without the pressure of working together, maybe they would have gone out for drinks, to catch up. Maybe he would have woken up in her bed and not been forced to promise to leave it. Maybe they would have been...maybe they could have…

"I'm glad you're here now," she said.

What did that mean? He wondered. Was she glad that there would be no chance for romance between them now? Or was she just grateful that they'd found each other at all?

"Me, too," he said. _Truth or lie?_ He wasn't sure.

"But I really need to use the loo." She grinned at him, bright and mischievous the way she used to be, and then she rolled away from him, and their moment of reflection was broken, the shimmering air of nostalgia that surrounded them resolving itself into another mundane morning. She needed to piss, and so did he. Then he would need to leave, to drive himself home, would need to start his laundry and work on painting the sitting room, would need to step back into reality as he knew it. It would be just another normal Saturday, except now he knew he could look forward to seeing her come Monday. It was enough, for now, to know that he had that to look forward to. It had to be enough.


	9. Chapter 9

_7 August 2004_

"Come on, Trish!" Wesley called from the other side of the door. "We're going to be late!"

"Just a second!" Jen yelled back, turning to examine her reflection in the mirror one last time.

Although she'd been sleeping quite comfortably in the daybed in the office, although she was grateful for it and would never dream of giving it up, their living arrangements were somewhat complicated by the fact that all of Trish Claybourne's wardrobe - and the only full length mirror in the house - were in the master suite. Wesley had graciously stepped aside and allowed Jen full run of the room in order to dress while he loitered in the corridor, already wearing his smart black suit, ready to go and waiting only on her.

The contents of Trish's wardrobe were extensive, and as Jen considered them she couldn't help but wonder where it had all come from. Surely SIS hadn't splashed out on all these clothes, but if they hadn't bought them, where had they got them? Had they taken them from Mrs. Claybourne herself? Had Jen and her Wesley been chosen for this job based on their measurements rather than their capabilities? Quite apart from their dubious origins the clothes themselves were alarming to Jen; low cut tops, short skirts, bright patterns, sequins, tassels. It was all trashy in an expensive sort of way, a gauche, new money display of opulence so different from Jen's own subtle, professional tastes. How long was she supposed to live like this, flaunting her body in these hideous outfits, pretending to be content while inside she was screaming?

There was a job to be done, and she knew it, and she tried to swallow her distress and choose a look for the evening. Today was Saturday, the day of the all-important party. A fellow shipping magnate was hosting a cozy little soiree for one hundred of his closest friends, and arrangements had been made for the Claybournes to introduce themselves to Muhammad Hartono while they were there. Though they had been recommended to him through mutual friends - the shipping magnate had been threatened into cooperation by SIS through means Jen didn't want to consider - his first impression of them would make or break the relationship. They would need to appear capable, trustworthy, and yet unscrupulous enough to take on his business, would need to play their parts believably, smoothly, without raising any sort of suspicion. For Wesley, that would require a familiarity with technical jargon, a strong handshake, and a steady disposition; for Trish, it would require the right dress.

The dress code for the evening was cocktail attire, but given the size and location of the party - in one of Sydney's glitziest mansions - Jen knew that meant something more formal to these people than it did to her. She'd bypassed the sequins and the tassels and the floral patterns, and settled, at last, on a burgundy dress. It was the least outrageous of the lot in terms of ornament, but when she'd slipped into it she'd discovered it was flamboyant in an entirely different way. The dress fit her like a second skin, ruched around the waist to accentuate the curve of her hip, and the tight hemline stopped mid-thigh. The neckline plunged far lower than anything Jen wore in her own life; this dress would require a thong, and would not permit a bra. But the color was nice on her, and she'd been careful with her hair, curling it slightly so that it fell in loose golden waves around her shoulders. In the jewelry box on the vanity she'd discovered a gold lariat necklace, with a single sparkling stone that might have been a diamond nestled at the base of her throat and a second that fell on a golden chain from there to dangle enticingly between her breasts. In that skin-tight dress, with that necklace drawing the eye so neatly to her chest, she felt more exposed than if she were standing there naked.

 _I am really going to do this?_ She asked herself. A pair of diamond stud earrings and a pair of golden, lace-up sandals brought the look together, and the smokey eyeshadow she'd applied made her look...well. Not like herself. It wasn't _bad_ , it was just so far outside her comfort zone that she wasn't sure if -

"Trish!" Wesley called again. Another man might have been irritated, having been left standing in the corridor so long while she dithered, having to remind her twice that they were running out of time, but Wesley sounded as calm and collected as always, and Jen appreciated that about him more than she could say.

 _I'll ask him what he thinks,_ she decided. Straightening her shoulders - the tight fit of the dress and that plunging neckline required perfect posture, lest she fall out of it completely - she marched across the room, and discovered as she went that she'd need to move more slowly than she was accustomed to, to prevent the dress from riding up too far and flashing everyone in sight. At the door she paused, tugged on the hem of her dress once self-consciously, and then flung the door open at last.

Wesley was standing on the other side, and when she appeared he opened his mouth as if he meant to speak to her, but no words left him. His eyes went wide, as he took in the sight of her, and Jen tried her best not to fidget it, or chide him for gawping. He was supposed to be her husband, but more than that he was her partner, her right hand, the only person in the world she could count on, and his opinion of her outfit was important to her. She needed a second set of eyes, and Wesley had so far proven himself to be a reliable judge of what was and was not appropriate to their new identities.

"Is it all right?" she asked nervously. It was too short, too tight, too revealing for her tastes, but even she could admit she looked damn good in it; her long legs on display like that, the color contrasting beautifully with her own pale skin, the gold in the necklace and the shoes setting off the shine of her hair, made her _look...well...sexy._ Would he agree? Would he think that was a good thing?

"Christ," Wesley choked. "Give me some warning, next time."

Jen grinned; he seemed appreciative of her choices, and that bolstered her flagging confidence somewhat.

"Good, then?" she asked.

"No one in that room is going to forget you in a hurry," he told her earnestly. After his initial shock he'd been very careful to keep his eyes fixed on her face, and she was grateful for that, too, grateful that his gaze wasn't glued to her chest, grateful that when he looked at her he saw _her_ , and not just that dress.

"That's what we want, isn't it?"

The goal for the evening was to establish Trish and Wesley as key players in the Sydney shipping scene, make some new contacts, and make a positive impression on Hartono. It would help Wesley's reputation, she knew, if his wife drew praise for her appearance, if he could boast about her beauty, if the men in that room could see her with him, see the way she only had eyes for him; these men were old fashioned in the worst sort of way, and they would judge a man on his wife as much as on his wallet. Jen wanted, very much, to be a good wife to him, to help him sell their story, and get the operation rolling.

"It is," Wesley agreed. "How about me, then? I look all right?"

He took a step back and held out his arms, waiting for her verdict. Though she wanted very much to tease him he had been so kind her that Jen decided to be honest in her response, rather than try to rile him, and so she considered him carefully. His thick, dark hair had been neatly combed, and his sharp black suit fit him well, accentuated the breadth of his chest and shoulders. His shoes were shiny and clean, and his white shirt was neat and unwrinkled. There were a pair of golden cufflinks already neatly in place at his wrists, and a big, matching watch there as well; Jen hadn't realized he'd chosen gold for his own accessories, and was now even more certain of her choices than she had been before. They would look, she thought, like they were a pair. But Wesley had chosen a black tie to go with his black suit, and he looked, she thought, like he was ready to go to a politician's funeral.

Without thinking Jen stepped up close to him, and began picking at the knot of his tie.

"This has to go," she said while she worked, and he stood steady and still beneath her hands. Too late it occurred to her that perhaps she ought not have taken this liberty; they'd only known each other a bare few days, were still dancing politely around one another in the kitchen, still trying to find their way. But they'd had fun, too, going round to the shops in search of throw pillows and books and art for the walls, learning how to be together, and she felt almost comfortable with him, already. And at the party tonight they'd have to be every inch the happily married couple; surely, she thought, it was all right for her to do this for him.

"Are you sure?" he asked her, and it took her a moment to realize he was still talking about the tie. Carefully she slipped it free from his collar, tossed it into the bedroom, and then returned to unfasten the first two shirt buttons at the base of his throat.

"I'm sure," she said, looking determinedly at her hands, not wanting to see his warm eyes watching her from such close range. "You don't want to look too buttoned up. And besides, that tie made you look like a cop."

She stepped back to admire her handiwork, and as she did she saw him frown. What could have caused that, she wondered. Of course Wesley didn't know anything about her own life, had no idea that she was a detective herself; too late she wondered who he was, out in the world, and if perhaps she'd touched a nerve.

"If you're sure, then," he said. That was the thing about Wesley; he chose his battles. There were no silly little spats about clothes or decorations for the house or whose turn it was to do the dishes; he just took everything in his stride, and _oh,_ how Jen wished she could steal some of his confidence for herself.

With their outfits sorted there was nothing left for them to do, and thoughts of the impending party and the sudden tension that his proxmity inspired in her stirred up all of her worries about the coming party. They were going to do this, now, were going to walk out that door, and -

"Are you ready?" he asked her softly.

Jen sighed, and tugged at her dress again. Was she ready? To go out in the world as Trish Claybourne, to shake hands with criminals, to drink their champagne and pretend she had no qualms about running guns and worse through her own country's ports? Was she ready to find out, once and for all, just how well she'd handle the life of lies and treachery she'd signed up for? What if it all went to hell? What if someone saw through them, what if she stumbled over an important piece of information, what if Hartono didn't like her dress, or her husband, and chose not to work with them? What if it all fell apart right now?

"Talk to me, Trish," Wesley said softly. She must have been quiet for too long, and he must have read her like a book; he was watching her thoughtfully, but there was no judgement in him. He seemed to genuinely want to help her, and she genuinely wanted to let him.

"I'm scared," she confessed. "There's so much riding on this party, and if something goes wrong…"

"If something goes wrong, I'll be there," he said. He smiled at her gently, and then he held out his hand to her. For a moment Jen looked at his hand, broad and strong and so much bigger than her own, but only for a moment. He was offering her more than just his hand, she knew; he was offering her his protection, was promising her, in his own way, to look out for her. Promising that they would face this night, and all the nights to come, together. Jen took a deep breath, and then caught his hand in her own.

"I've got you," he told her, squeezing her hand lightly. "Whatever comes next, I've got you."

It was enough, in that moment, to know that Wesley would be beside her. He was hardly more than a stranger, but she had just delivered her life into his hands, and she knew, somehow, that he would not let her down.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Ready," she said.

And so they set off into the night together, Jen in her beautiful burgundy dress, Wesley in his smart suit - without the tie. Hand-in-hand they went out from that place, and Jen took comfort knowing in that whatever happened next they would face it, together.


	10. Chapter 10

_7 August 2004_

"Oh, Trish, you have to come with us. Please, say you will! It's been ages since we had someone new to talk to, and you've only just got here, you should get out and meet some people!"

Jen smiled her best and brightest smile, and tried not to laugh in disbelief. The last thing she wanted to do, really, was go for overpriced manicures and watered-down mimosas with the flock of trilling peacocks in front of her, but she knew that she had no choice; she knew what her objectives were. Ingratiate herself to these people, befriend the wives while Wesley worked on the husbands, give every appearance of being exactly what she said she was; Jen might not want to go, but Trish had to.

"Oh, I'd love to," she gushed at Marcy, earning herself a chorus of happy titters in response. Marcy was evidently the ring-leader of the little group; it was her house they stood in now, her husband who had extended this invitation to them, and if Marcy had any idea that he had only done so after receiving threats and intimidation from SIS she gave no sign of it.

The ladies were delighted because, despite the eye-popping dress and the bright diamond jewelry and the artful tumble of her golden hair and her perfectly shaved legs, Trish Claybourne's nails were, to their minds, pitifully short and unadorned. They all had fingernails like talons, painted in a rainbow of hues, paid for dearly, and they wanted Trish to have them, too, wanted to make her one of them. Jen was a woman who worked with her hands, a woman who kept her nails short to avoid catching them on the skin of a perp or the trigger of a gun, a woman who often neglected personal adornment in favor of practicality; Trish could not have been more different. Appearance was everything to Trish, and that appearance was supposed to speak of wealth, status, class, and the ladies, having recognized the one area in which she had failed to live up to their expectations, had sought to rectify it at once. No doubt they thought they were doing her a favor. Jen just wanted to scream.

"I was just telling Wesley, we've got to get out and meet people," she said. "It's been lovely just the two of us the last few days, but it would be very nice to have some friends in town."

"Well, you've got the three of us already," Marcy said, grinning. "I'll ring you tomorrow and we can schedule a girls' day out."

 _The three of us_ meant Marcy, Helen, and Kate, wives of three of the biggest names in Sydney shipping. They were all lacquered and botoxed and squeezed into too-tight dresses, but so far they had bypassed gossip in favor of sincere-seeming curiosity about the Claybournes. Trish and Wesley had made quite a splash when they first turned up; their hosts had rushed to greet them, to show them around to everyone, and every pair of eyes Jen encountered had roved across them appraisingly. _Like sharks catching the scent of blood,_ Jen thought.

"And I'll make sure Frank brings Wesley along the next time the boys play golf."

"He'd love that," Jen said. In fact, she wasn't entirely sure how Wesley felt about golf, but it didn't matter; if he was asked, he would have to go, and make the best of it.

"Speaking of Wesley," Kate said, one eyebrow arched knowingly. "It looks like you're being summoned."

Jen turned on her heel, her eyes seeking Wesley out across the palatial room. There were people milling about everywhere, sipping champagne and laughing, some of them even dancing - Frank and Marcy had spared no expense, and had procured a string quartet for the evening - but to her mind he was easy to spot, tall and broad shouldered and handsome in his own quiet way. He was standing with some of the husbands but given the way his gaze traveled around the room she rather got the sense that he was looking for her, and when he caught her eye he smiled, and gestured to her beckoning.

"I suppose I am," Jen told the ladies, smiling. "Thank you, really."

"No worries, love," Helen said dismissively. "You run along now, don't keep your Wesley waiting."

Inside Jen bristled a little over being addressed in such a manner, but she only smiled and walked away as quickly as her dress would allow, trying to organize her thoughts and process everything she'd just learned. As the richest of them all Marcy was by default the ringleader, but she seemed a bit too dim and a bit too tender-hearted to display the sort of ruthless cunning success in high society required; though she gave every appearance of deferring to Marcy it was actually Helen who dominated the little group. Helen, who was free with her frowns and tight with her smiles, Helen who Jen could already tell possessed the grasping, ambitious nature of a woman who wouldn't hesitate to cut down a rival in public. Perhaps, Jen thought, Helen was a good match for her husband; perhaps those two were the ones she and Wesley would need to watch most closely.

While she'd been entertaining the ladies Wesley had been deep in conversation with the men, and they all stood together in a little clump now, watching her approach. There was Frank, their host for the evening, and there was Bill, Helen's pinch-faced little husband, and Wesley, of course, but they'd been joined by two gentlemen Jen recognized at once from the briefing notebooks: Muhammad Hartono and his right-hand-man, Hasan Prakoso. Her heart began to race, but she did her best to hide it, just caught her husband's eye and grinned. They'd been at this for two hours now, and in all that time Jen had only been nursing one single glass of champagne, but everyone else was several drinks in, and Jen had decided to play along. She would be bright and bubbly, all smiles and warm conversation, would appear relaxed and at ease as best she could. She would be the perfect wife for Wesley, would meet his acquaintances politely, would defer to them in conversation, and give every appearance of being completely besotted with her handsome husband. Later things would change; later she would grill him on the details and try to come up with a plan of attack, but right now, tonight, an appearance of intelligence would not necessarily be an asset.

"Here she is now," Wesley said as she approached.

They'd only known each other just under a week, and this was to be their first real test of compatibility. The trips to the shops had been undertaken without an audience, and though they'd spent the previous day at work for the most part they hadn't even been in the same room. Now, tonight, their every word and gesture would be observed, and everything was riding on their ability to be comfortable and happy with one another.

The moment she was in range they slid together; Wesley's right arm looped easily around her waist, his hand settling heavy and warm against her hip, and he drew her into him, guided her into the circle of gentlemen, and Jen moved with him without hesitation, slotting herself into place against his side.

"There's some people I'd like you to meet," Wesley told her. "Trish, this is Muhammad Hartono and Hasan Prakoso. Gentlemen, my wife, Trish."

"Lovely to meet you Mr. Hartono," Jen said warmly as she shook his hand first, then reached for his associate's. "Mr. Prakoso."

"Mr. Hartono owns an import business, and he's looking for someone to help move his cargo in from Indonesia."

Jen knew all this, of course, but Trish didn't, and so Trish gave every appearance of being interested in this information.

"Oh, that's wonderful," she said warmly. "Wes and I spent some time in Jakarta last year. It's a beautiful country, and we met some fascinating people."

As she spoke Wesley's hand remained glued firmly to her hip, and he squeezed her once, gently; in praise, she thought, for she had just neatly insinuated that the Claybournes had some experience bringing cargo in from Indonesia, and would be keen to do so again. Such a thing had to be done delicately, she knew; formal negotiations had not yet begun, and so they couldn't jump straight to terms and the details of their CV. A bit more discretion would be required, at present.

"I must say I prefer Sydney," Hartono said. He was an odd man; he had smiled as they were introduced, but that smile did not reach his eyes. There was a coldness in him, a sort of reserve, as if he thought himself above everyone and everything in the room, as if he believed his time was a gift he was bestowing on those inferior to himself, a gift he would retract at any time, for any reason, without warning. That could not be allowed to happen.

"We haven't been here long," Wesley said, "but it already feels like home."

"Frank has given you a proper welcome," Hartono answered, waving his hand negligently to indicate the party. His associate remained stone-faced and silent, which Jen did not like, not one little bit. It was difficult to get a read on a man who didn't speak, and they'd need to impress him as well as Hartono if they had any hope of succeeding.

"Everyone in Melbourne speaks so highly of Wesley, I thought it only right that we treat him well," Frank said. He was sweating. Jen didn't like that, either; whether Frank knew they were impostors or not he was aware that SIS had demanded he introduce them to Hartono, and no doubt that made him nervous. He wasn't an operative, though, wasn't trained and background checked and briefed, and that made him a weak link. Jen could only hope that his sense of self-preservation would be sufficient to keep him from stuffing up.

"If you were happy there, what made you decide to leave Melbourne, Mr. Claybourne?" Hartono asked lazily. Though he gave every appearance of being disinterested in the answer his eyes had narrowed, and Jen held her breath, praying Wesley could answer the question smoothly.

Of course he did; Wesley did everything smoothly, and nothing ever seemed to phase him.

"Looking to expand," he said. "We're still operational in Melbourne, but there's a lot more business to be done in Sydney. If everything goes right, we'll be operational in Adelaide and Perth in two years' time."

It was a good answer; an expanding business was a successful one, and Hartono would be looking for a partner who knew what he was doing. And a partner who had eyes on expansion was one who would be looking for new cargo to fund that expansion, would be eager to make a deal, and the grandiosity of the plan Wesley had just laid out would require the sort of ambition that might appeal to a man like Hartono. Wesley Claybourne had big plans, and for that he'd need big friends.

 _It's going well,_ Jen thought.

"I wish you luck, then," Hartono said. Apparently he'd heard enough; he shot his associate a look, and the two of them exchanged the briefest of nods. "We'll leave you and your lovely wife to enjoy your evening."

The gentlemen all shook hands - neither Hartono nor Prakoso spared a glance for Jen - and then they all began to drift away, until Frank was alone with the Claybournes.

"That went well," he said.

"How could you tell?" Wesley asked shrewdly. Jen was wondering the same thing; they'd hardly spoken to the man at all, and she couldn't tell from their brief interaction whether he'd formed an opinion of them or not.

"You work with him long enough, you'll get a feel for him. What he's like. If he didn't like you, he would have asked more questions. I reckon you can expect a call come Monday."

"I'll look forward to it, then," Wesley said easily. "But for now, I think I'd like to dance with my wife. You'll excuse us, Frank?"

"Of course," Frank said, waving him off. "Go, enjoy the party."

"Cheers, mate."

And so they left him, Wesley's arms still wrapped around Jen's waist, holding her close. As they passed an empty table they dropped off their champagne glasses there, and Jen stole a look around the room. No one was standing close enough to hear them, and so as they resumed their journey towards the corner of the room devoted to dancing she leaned in to whisper to her husband.

"Do you even know how to dance?"

Wesley laughed, and as they reached the edge of the dancers he spun her into his arms easily. His hands reached for her, the left on her hip, the right clasping her left, pulling her neatly into a dancehold that felt practiced, and damn near professional, in a way that surprised her.

"My mother made me take lessons," he confessed as he began to lead them in a simple waltz. "As a kid I was embarrassed, but now I'm grateful. It has its uses."

"I'll say," Jen murmured. It caught her off guard, somehow, the assured, graceful way he moved. She hadn't been taught, not properly, but his feet knew where to go, and she found it easy to follow him; his hands guided her gently, not grasping or tugging, telegraphing his intentions with just enough warning to have her moving where she ought to go, the pair of them in sync and complimenting one another well. The room was warm, and so was Wesley, handsome in his well-tailored suit, and for the first time all night Jen felt herself relax, genuinely, just a little. _I'm glad we got rid of the tie,_ Jen thought distantly as they danced; she liked the sight of his neck, the way it made him seem more approachable. Some of the men present were wearing them but most had gone without, and she was pleased to know she'd made the right choice.

"Everything go all right with the wives?" he asked her quietly.

"We're going to get our nails done at the weekend."

Wesley laughed again, and then to her surprise he spun her easily, swung her out and then pulled her in close, his hand sliding around to the small of her back, their chests now flush together - though he remembered her rules, and did not let his hand drift lower than it ought. A few people had taken note of them, Jen realized, were watching Wesley and his Trish dancing together, and she desperately hoped that they looked as good together as they felt, just now.

"You'll hate that, won't you?" he asked wryly.

"As much as you'll hate golfing with the boys," she fired back.

As she spoke she looked up at him, and found his eyes already trained on her face, his expression warm, and she felt her cheeks flush at his proximity, at the way he seemed to look right through her, and read her every thought. It wasn't the half glass of champagne she'd drunk, or the exertion of dancing, or the heat of all those bodies in one room that made her blush; it was _him,_ close, and watching her.

"We'll be all right, won't we, sweetheart?" he asked her softly.

"Of course we will, sweetheart," she answered.

He smiled, then, and so did she, and they continued to dance, together.


	11. Chapter 11

_8 September 2009_

The briefing broke up just after 1:00 in the morning; Si was chomping at the bit to go back to the marina and interview the security guard, but Waverly had put a leash on him and Jen was grateful for it. She was beyond exhausted; from the moment the boat had been discovered, adrift and covered in blood with no bodies in sight, they'd all been going flat out, doing whatever they could uncover the truth of what had happened out there on the water. What had happened didn't bear thinking about; two kids out for a joy ride on daddy's yacht, two kids who just wanted to have some fun, two kids who were just looking for somewhere to fuck without their roommates listening in, two kids being kids, had ended up...like that. Blood, everywhere, and their bodies weighed down with the yacht's anchor chain. And to cap it off the poor girl's mother had just buried her husband; just like that, the woman was all alone, her family shattered. That sort of devastation, that sort of grief, wasn't something people ever really recovered from, Jen knew, and her heart broke for the poor woman, and her poor daughter, and that poor boy, and-

"Drive you home?"

Jen nearly jumped out of her skin, spun on her heel and found herself face to face with Nick. She hadn't heard him approach, had been too lost in her own thoughts about the case at hand and forgotten, for a moment, that he was back. Back when he was Wesley and she was Trish, back in that life she thought she'd left behind her, she'd chided him for sneaking up on her like that. Maybe he'd forgotten.

If it were Matty or Duncan offering her a lift she would have said _yeah, all right_ , and been glad for the opportunity to close her eyes and relax against the window, watching the city flicker by in the darkness. If it were Simon she would have said no outright; he drove like a maniac. Allie never would have offered. But this was Nick, Nick who she'd only known for a few days, technically speaking, and she wasn't sure what answer she was supposed to give. Would the boys think it strange, Nick giving her a lift home so early in their acquaintance? Would anyone notice, at this hour, where she went, or with whom? Would it really make a difference, when they were meant to be on the same team anyway, and neither of them had plans to transfer out any time soon? They'd be working together for the foreseeable future, it was only natural that they become friends. Surely Matt and the rest wouldn't think there was anything strange about that. Only, how long did ordinary people take to become friends? How much time would she need to spend pretending she didn't know him, really, pretending to develop the habits and understanding that had been ingrained in her very bones years before?

 _Christ, I'm tired,_ she thought.

"Yeah, all right," she said.

He smiled at her once, fleetingly, and then held out his arm in a gesture that seemed to say _after you,_ and so she lifted her bag onto her shoulder and set off for the lifts, Nick following along behind her silently.

Maybe it was a bad idea, to be alone with him again so soon. He'd fallen asleep in her bed on Friday night, and when they woke up on Saturday she'd told him _we can't do this again,_ but here she was, standing quietly in the lifts with him, intent on letting him drive her through the deserted city streets to her home. By _this_ she hadn't just meant falling asleep together, however chastely they'd passed the night; she'd meant _this,_ this drifting together, this leaning on one another, rebuilding the old cocoon of intimacy that had once protected them both. When she'd said _we can't do this again,_ she hadn't meant _you can't sleep here;_ she'd meant _you can't be the center of my world, again._ An indiscreet display of their profound trust in one another would raise too many questions among their annoyingly perceptive friends, for one, but for another it was too confusing for Jen, having him back, trying to find the line between what _was_ and what _had been._

There had been jokes between them, in the old days. There had been an understanding, of where they ought to go, where they ought to stand, how they'd approach any given conversation, coming at it from different angles and meeting in the middle. She was certain that balance would serve them well at work, but would Matt wonder why everything went so easy for Jen with Nick, when it had taken them longer to fall into stride, when they still needed to rehearse before going into interview? Would Duncan wonder why Jen didn't get riled up when Nick teased her, even though he was new, even though Duncan remembered how much more defensive Jen had been when they first started working together? And how was she supposed to _do_ this, see him at work every day and go home without him, sit on her sofa eating leftover takeaway without his fork reaching across to grab a bite for himself, knowing he was just across town, just a phone call away, and yet holding herself back?

"It never gets an easier, does it?" Nick asked quietly as he fired up the car, as she settled into the seat beside him. His voice caught her off guard, again; she'd been miles away, drifting through her memories and her worries, and it took her a moment to catch up with him, to figure out what he meant.

"I keep thinking about what must have happened on that bloody boat," she answered. It was half-truth; there was a photo taken from the crime scene, a single bloody handprint against a white painted wall, that Jen saw every time she closed her eyes. The hand that had left it had been small, delicate; it had to have been the girl's. It was that handprint that had affected Jen more than most anything else. One of the most important elements when considering a crime scene was context, the location of the victim in relation to their surroundings, but there had been no context at all, when the yacht was discovered. Just that handprint, soaked in the visceral red of arterial blood, an echo of the girl crying out _I'm here, someone, help me._ The photo made it all seem real, somehow, drove home the fact that a young university student with her whole life ahead of her had faced terror the likes of which no girl should ever know on that boat, and she had not survived it.

Nick hummed in agreement. She hadn't mentioned the handprint, but she almost wanted to, then, almost wanted to tell him about her disgust, her fear, her grief. She didn't, though; it wasn't what they did. Coppers. Every copper knew homicide was the best beat in the state police, and every copper knew the work was horror stacked upon horror, and no end in sight. It didn't do any good to talk about it; they all felt it, every time they stumbled across a new victim, and talking to Matt or to Duncan or to Simon about the way each of those acts of violence built up inside her heart until it turned into a monster eating her from the inside out wouldn't make it go away. It would only make things worse, she thought; giving a name to that fear, that dread, that hopelessness, made it real, gave it power, and that way lay the end of her career. The best thing to do, she knew, was to put a bit of distance between herself and the case, to crack a joke, to distract, to disarm, but she wasn't sitting next to Duncan, or Simon, or Matt. She was sitting next to _him._

"I cut my teeth in homicide," he told her softly as he drove. Jen turned to him in surprise; she hadn't known that, before, that he'd gotten his start in their prestigious department. Jen had started out in traffic, and then fraud; she'd clawed tooth and nail to reach the same point Nick had started from. "My first case," he continued, "the very first one, I cried."

 _Most of us just puke,_ Jen thought, but she kept those words to herself. She'd managed her first homicide brilliantly. It was the third one that made her lose her lunch and question what she was doing, in a job like that, looking down at mangled bodies and horror with a cup of coffee in her hand.

But Nick had cried. She tried to picture it, Nick as a green detective, even younger than when she'd met him the first time, so devastated by the carnage in front of him that he'd wept. When he was Wesley he'd always kept his emotions bottled up, had always seemed so calm, so unflappable, but she had learned, with time, about the passion that lived within his chest, his fierce, unwavering desire for justice, his compassion, and she could see it, somehow, him weeping over a particularly upsetting murder, and she liked him all the more for it.

"You're a good man," she said before she thought better of it.

Technically, Jen didn't know if that was true. Technically, didn't Jen didn't know if Nick Buchanan was a good man. She didn't know anything about his family, or his past, didn't know how he treated his girlfriend when he had one, didn't know how he'd handled previous cases, who he might have pissed off over the course of his career. But she knew _him,_ the him that he had been when he was with her, and she remembered.

"I was partnered with this old bugger. Bruce Dalton. A mentor, of sorts. He found me, and I thought he was gonna give me shit for falling to pieces. But he told me that the day it stops bothering me is the day I should quit. Never forgotten that."

Wolfie had told Jen something along those lines, once, and she knew that it was true. To be a good copper they had to feel it, had to scream about the injustice of it all and fight like hell for the victims. It was the reason they'd taken the job in the first place. Somehow, hearing those words from Nick comforted her more than she thought it should. Maybe it was just a welcome reminder that he was like _her,_ in this and in so many other things. A reminder that he understood.

"Why'd you leave?" she asked. If he'd started out in Homicide surely he'd had his eyes on the Sergeant's chair, harbored dreams of moving up the ranks, but he'd been so long gone by the time she came upstairs from fraud that she'd never even heard the boys mention him, and she couldn't understand why he'd walk away from homicide, only to come back years later.

In the dark Nick smiled.

"SIS called."

Jen drew in a sharp breath. She hadn't been expecting that, somehow, but it made sense. When she'd agreed to become Trish Claybourn, requested indefinite leave for an opportunity she couldn't talk about, she'd known there was every chance the State Police might not have a spot for her when she came back. They couldn't hold her position open forever. As the days turned into months turned into more than a year, she'd felt her old life slipping further and further from her grasp. No doubt Nick had endured the same; he'd left homicide, and then he'd met _her_ , and then when SIS was through with him he hadn't had a job to come back to. He'd given up homicide for SIS, and in a way it felt to Jen like he'd given it up for _her._ That was silly, though; he hadn't even known her, before he walked into that hotel room the day before the op started.

"I kicked around a few other departments after that. I applied for the secondment when Dunny got shot, but they told me the post had already been filled."

"That was me," Jen answered weakly. _Christ,_ but it was strange, to think they had been orbiting so close to one another for so long, and yet somehow their paths had never crossed before, when there seemed to have been so many chances for it. It felt almost as if they'd been held in reserve, kept apart from one another until just the right moment. Until now.

Beside her Nick laughed. "How about that, eh?" he said.

"Yeah," she answered faintly. "How about that."


	12. Chapter 12

_5 September 2004_

One month into his new life as Wesley Claybourne Nick found that things had settled into a comfortable sort of routine - for him, at least. On weekdays he went to the office; as with most businesses, much of the actual work involved in keeping Claybourne Shipping operational was done by his employees, and not Wesley himself. There were some meetings and phone calls he absolutely had to take himself, which was why much of his time in training had been spent not on firearms training and deception but in learning the ins and outs of the shipping business. Any correspondence requiring his signature was first drafted by his secretary, a clever girl named Maria who had been turned by SIS, and was desperate to save her own skin. She'd take his secret to the grave, he knew, and he relied on her to keep his public facing persona intact.

In the evenings he'd come home, and Trish would order takeout, and they'd eat it together at the little table in the kitchen, comparing notes on their day's activities. Not that anything much seemed to happen; for the most part Claybourne Shipping was a legitimate enterprise, and much of the minutiae of their daily lives was boring, and routine. Hartono hadn't called them and the spooks were getting antsy, Nick knew; SIS had thrown everything they had at this operation, but if Hartono never took the bait, it would all be for naught. Frank had told him to be patient where Hartono was concerned, however, and Nick was determined to do just that; the house was comfortable enough, and he'd stay here as long as he needed to in order to bring an end to Hartono's illegal activities. That was the job, he told himself, no sense in getting worked up over it. He'd be here as long as he was required to be, and there was no point in trying to suss out a possible stop date for the operation when they hadn't even properly gotten started yet.

Trish seemed to disagree, however. She grew waspish as the days dragged on with no word from Hartono, no sign that what they were doing made a bit of difference in the grand scheme of things. She hated spending her days staring at spreadsheets, spending her Saturdays with the wives, and having nothing to show for it, but she'd likewise rebuffed Nick's attempts to reassure her, and so he simply tried to give her space to work things out on her own. His calm advice only seemed to irritate her further, and he was determined to keep the peace so long as they had to live together.

The weekends were the worst, he'd found. When Trish wasn't out with the girls and he wasn't out drinking and pretending to golf with the lads, there was precious little for them to _do._ They had no children or pets, did not belong to a church or other community group, and their little garden was scrupulously maintained by a landscaping service. Inside that house they just seemed to rattle around, trying not to bump into one another, trying to find some way to keep themselves occupied until they could go back to work. It might have been different, if they were a real couple; they might have enjoyed hiking together, or gone to footie matches, or the cinema, might have interests that they shared in common and pursued delightedly together. As it stood, however, they were still strangers to one another in so many ways, and likely would be forever. After all, he didn't even really know her name.

With the laundry put away and nothing else to do, then, Nick flopped down on the sofa and turned on the telly. Might as well spend Sunday afternoon watching the footie; it wasn't like he had anything more pressing on. Trish was back in the office that also served as her bedroom; what she got up to in there remained a mystery to him, but he had no intention of pushing to find out. Let her have her privacy, her space, if that's what she needed; he was quite content where he was.

Only as the minutes ticked by he found that wasn't the case. There was a computer in the office; was she using it to access her email, to check in on her own life? That was strictly against the rules. He supposed she could just as easily be communicating with SIS, but she'd made no mention of reaching out to them. What could she have to say to them, anyway, that she'd need to keep secret from him? It wasn't as if he suspected her of reporting on him; there wasn't anything to report, really. Unless she thought he wasn't fit for the job. Unless she blamed him for Hartono's silence.

No, he tried to tell himself, that couldn't be it. They were a _team_ , and maybe things were awkward and maybe they were both bored and maybe they were both a little worried about what would happen if Hartono never called them, but Trish wouldn't try to throw him under the bus. He didn't know much about her, but he knew a little, and that seemed out of character for her.

 _Maybe she's just reading a book;_ the thought had no sooner occurred to him than he heard the sound of the office door opening, and then she appeared, his Trish, with a paperback clutched in her hands.

She really was something, this woman they'd found for him. She was small, a full head shorter than he and slightly built, and she was beautiful, too, with those bright blue-grey eyes, her golden hair, her golden skin. Trish was lovely in an approachable way, like the prettiest girl in a literature class at uni. She had a quick, bright smile he liked very much, and the vision of her as she was right now, that long blonde hair caught in a messy bun, wearing stretchy black yoga pants and a soft grey t-shirt, her feet bare on the tile floor, made him wish, more than anything, that he _knew_ her. Pretty, and brave, and fierce, he knew she was all those things and more besides, and he counted himself grateful that he'd been paired with the likes of her, and not someone less palatable.

As she entered the room he caught her eye; Trish gave him a tight smile and then folded herself into one of the nearby armchairs, opened her book and set about reading it all in silence. And as she did Nick smiled to himself, because even though she was determinedly ignoring him she had chosen, quite deliberately, to ignore him from the same room, and not hide away elsewhere. She had sought him out, and he was rather charmed by the idea of them passing their afternoon this way, he with the footie and she with her book, sharing the same space in a comfortable, familiar sort of silence.

Only it wasn't silence he wanted, not really. Nick wasn't the sort to make conversation just for the sake of it, but he'd been sharing his life with this woman for a month now and he rather thought he owed it to her to at least attempt to get to know her better. The real _her_ , not the Trish he'd found in the notes scribbled in the briefing manual, but the woman she was beneath the fake nails and the society facade she'd been forced to wear.

"Good book?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the telly.

Trish hummed; he took that as a _yes_ , and smiled. She hadn't looked up either, and he knew that really the polite thing to do would be to leave her to her reading, but she'd chosen to come into the sitting room for a reason, and somehow he didn't think silence was all she wanted.

"What's it about?"

She sighed and he did look over at her then, found her watching him wryly, as if she resented the interruption but knew she couldn't blame him for it.

"Murder mystery," she said.

"Alcoholic cops and beautiful women?" he asked. That was the main reason Nick never read crime books; not only did they always butcher the entire process of investigation, but they always seemed to center on a drunk angry bastard, and in his years with the police Nick had encountered few men who actually fit that bill. They existed, of course, but it wasn't as if every copper in the State Police was like that, isolated and lonesome and willing to violate all the rules of procedure and due process in the name of solving the crime. Mostly they were decent blokes. Tired blokes, but decent.

"Something like that," Trish said archly. Her eyes flickered towards the telly, and her expression settled into a rueful sort of smile. "You a Bombers fan?" she asked.

"Anything wrong with that?" Nick answered, somewhat defensively. Surely she wouldn't think less of him because he pulled for the wrong club?

"Dad was a Bulldogs man," she told him.

It was a delightfully personal thing, to Nick's mind, that she felt comfortable enough to share even that little bit of information with him. She'd spoken of her father in the past tense, so no doubt she'd already lost him, but she spoke of him with fondness, too, and Nick liked knowing that she didn't hate her old man, that she remembered him kindly. It wasn't Trish Claybourne's father she was talking about; it was her own, a piece of her own story revealed to him now, and he couldn't help but wonder how much more she might be willing to tell him, as the days dragged on.

"But not you?" he asked carefully, wondering what she was interested in, passionate about, wondering how she spent her time out there in the world, when she wasn't working for SIS and subsumed beneath someone else's identity. Wondering if she'd tell him the truth, or feed him a line like a good spook, wondering if he'd ever really know her at all.

"I never much cared about it," she said. Her eyes dropped back down to her book, and Nick knew he probably ought to let her get back to it, but it likewise seemed to him that they were both enjoying this little back and forth, ferreting out details about one another. It seemed to Nick that she was as curious as he was, in the way that most coppers were, looking for answers even when the subject at hand wasn't particularly important, looking for new ways to understand the people around them, looking for motives, looking for clues. He didn't know what she did for work, but somehow he didn't think she was SIS; she was too anxious, too tightly-wound for that. But she could handle weapons and she walked with her back straight and her chin up, and maybe, just maybe, he thought, she might be like _him._ A copper, too, drawn out of a perfectly normal life and dropped into the middle of this swirling pool of intrigue and dubious alliances. He liked the thought that they might share this thing in common, even though chances were slim he'd ever find out the truth. After all, she wasn't supposed to tell him, and he wasn't supposed to ask.

"What do you do for fun, then?" That was what he really wanted to know, anyway, and she had already learned about one of his interests; turnabout is fair play, and all that. "You like to read?"

"Sometimes," she answered, shying away from the question. They weren't supposed to share personal details, but it wasn't as if he'd asked where she grew up or where she went to school or what she did for work. Surely it would be all right to talk about their hobbies. Wouldn't it? It seemed to him that Trish was wrestling with the same question, but in the end she relented, tucked her legs up underneath her and looked straight at him.

"I like to paint, too," she said.

"Paint?" Nick asked, somewhat thrown by her answer. He studied her now, thought how strange it seemed that she could be delicate and lovely, and yet possessed of such strength; she'd folded in on herself, but she seemed less like a shrinking violet and more like a spring poised to snap. She could be out of that chair and fighting in a second, and the lean muscles of her arms and legs spoke to a certain degree of power he'd not anticipated when they first met. Painting, that was something else he'd not expected; it seemed charmingly whimsical, to his mind, the sort of passion he wouldn't think a woman in this line of work would have time for.

"Yeah, you know, oils, canvas, that sort of thing," she told him.

"What, like landscapes? Flowers?" What would a woman like her find so compelling that she needed to recreate it on canvas, keep it for posterity? What images, what colors, what themes swirled through her heart, eager to escape into the world?

Trish shifted in her chair, looking suddenly uncomfortable, and he realized then that the question was rather more intimate than he'd intended. He'd known some women in his life who enjoyed creative pursuits, writing or drawing or whatever else, and they'd all been remarkably reluctant to share their work with him, as if he'd asked them to open up their hearts and let him poke around inside. Perhaps Trish felt the same. Perhaps she guarded her spirit closely, and didn't yet trust him enough to allow him access.

"Sometimes," she said. "Sometimes it's just colors. Sometimes I just like to see what happens."

There were no art supplies in the house at all; a few pens and stacks of boring black notebooks in the office, but that was it. They would be stuck in this house for God only knew how long, and Trish would not be able to practice her craft in any tangible way until the work was through. That thought made him sad, somehow; an ocean of time seemed to stretch out in front of them, and it didn't seem fair that she wouldn't be able to find at least some enjoyment in it.

"What about you? Do you play?" she asked, gesturing towards the long-forgotten footie match on the telly.

"Yeah," he said. She'd told him the truth, it was only fair that he show her the same courtesy. "Couple Saturdays a month." Nick played in a recreational league with some of his old mates, old mates who had no idea where he'd gone, or if he'd ever be back. Idly he wondered if they were sitting in front of their tellies right now, too, cheering for the Bombers, wondering where he was.

"That's nice," she said.

After that she picked up her book, and Nick let her read it in peace, the pair of them whiling the afternoon away, together, lost in their own thoughts.

* * *

On Monday afternoon Wesley told her to take the car home by herself. He had something he needed to pick up at the shops, he said. He'd take a cab home. Jen didn't like that, not one bit; they were supposed to be a team, a pair, were supposed to do everything together. He insisted on going with her to pick out books and throw pillows for the house, always held her hand while they wandered through the grocery store; why then, she wondered, would he want to be alone for this particular errand? Was he really just popping out to the shops, or did he have something else in mind? Their position was precarious, and if he was planning something she needed to know about it. He didn't seem like the sort of man who'd deliberately undermine their operation, but they hadn't had a call from Hartono, and now he was disappearing off on his own, and...well. It did make her wonder.

With nothing else to do, then, Jen changed into more comfortable clothes and set about making something for them to eat. Most nights they had takeaway - neither of them were particularly adept in the kitchen - but they had some food in and she had the time. Some pasta, some vegetables, she could manage that much, and so she did, though her thoughts were consumed with _him. Him,_ this strange, quiet man who had showed such an interest in her, who hadn't mocked her when she shared the pieces of her life with him, however small. There were precious few people who knew about her interest in painting; a few boyfriends, in the past, had half-heartedly attempted to support her in that endeavor, but their efforts were meager at best. The boys from work would tease her, she knew, would think it frivolous, and she'd long since found that the less her coworkers knew about her personal life, the better. The boys' club could talk about their sexual conquests and their footie woes and it would bring them closer, but if Jen tried to join in the whole tone of the conversation would shift. She was a target, not _one of them._

Only Wesley, Wesley was different. Or at least she thought he was. If he turned up carrying a couple of apples or a loaf of bread she'd know he was full of it, would know for a fact that he had lied about his reasons for venturing into the city on his own, and if that happened, if she couldn't trust him anymore, she'd have to put in a call to SIS. If Wesley was compromised they'd have to scrub the whole operation, and all this time, all this effort, would have been for nothing. In her heart she hoped, more than anything, that that wasn't the case. In her heart she hoped that she was every bit the man she had so far believed him to be, good and capable and devoted to his job.

Behind her she heard the sound of the front door opening, Wesley kicking off his shoes and tossing his keys into the little bowl on the sidetable.

"Honey, I'm home!" he called, and despite herself Jen smiled.

"In here!" she called back.

The food was mostly ready, and so she turned, crossed her arms over her chest and watched as he stepped into view. Her mouth fell open as she caught sight of him, however, for his hands were full of bags, and he had a stack of blank canvases tucked under his arm.

"I wasn't sure if you had a preference," he said, looking somewhat sheepish, "so I got a lot of different things."

They met at the kitchen table; Wesley laid out the bags and the canvases there, and took a step back, watching her carefully as she began to dig through the piles of supplies he'd bought. There were a myriad of brushes, all different shapes and styles, and at least ten different colors of oil paints, a bright, merry little rainbow. The canvases were smallish, but they'd be perfect for the sort of projects she'd be able to fit in around their work schedules. He'd even bought a little wooden palette for mixing colors; _someone must have helped him,_ she thought. He must have walked into the art supply store, and asked for assistance. How had he done it? Had he said _my wife likes to paint, and I want to get a gift for her?_

That was what he'd done; he had heard her, listened to her when she told him about herself, and then he had immediately gone out and purchased everything she'd need to paint. He had done this thing for _her,_ not as part of the operation, not because it was expected, not because he thought it might help them capture Hartono, but for _her._ It was a remarkable gift, and Jen's throat was tight with emotion as she studied the supplies in front of her. Only moments before she had been wondering if her trust in him was misplaced, but now she could see the truth was something else entirely. Perhaps, she thought, she hadn't trusted him enough.

"Thank you," she said, very softly, and when she looked up she found that Wesley was smiling at her warmly, and while he was no doubt pleased by her positive reaction to his gift he didn't seem smug or satisfied. He only seemed...well... _glad,_ glad that she liked it, glad that he had managed to make her happy. It was, she thought, the sort of thing a man, a good man, might do for his lover, and she found herself wondering, not for the first time, what it might have been like if only she'd met him in the course of their real lives. If they could share a drink, or a dinner, and come to know one another on their own terms. Would she have cared for him, or he for her? She liked to think so.

"You're welcome, sweetheart," he said, just as softly, and her heart did a funny little flip in her chest. Their gazes caught, held, his dark eyes watching her intently, and she could not look away; _who is he?_ She wondered. _Who is he, really, and what does he think of me, and what -_

"Something smells good," he said, and the moment shattered like glass, the tension and the heat that had been spooling up within her dissipating at once. He was right, to draw their attention away from one another; as sweet, as touching as his gift was, as much as it meant to Jen, they were, still, colleagues, and she could not allow herself to be too distracted by thoughts of him.

"It's nearly ready," she said. "You go and get changed, and I'll put this lot away."

He watched her for a moment while she gathered everything up, and then he turned, began to walk back down the corridor towards his bedroom, and as Jen saw him leave her she could not help but speak again.

"Wesley?" she said, her arms full of bags and canvasses, her heart full of questions.

He turned on his heel, facing her in an expectant sort of silence.

"Thank you," she said again, emphatically, sincerely. She needed him to know that she understood what he had done, in bringing her this gift, needed him to know she was, truly, grateful.

"You're welcome," he answered, again, his voice low, and soft, and warm, and to Jen's great relief he turned away, then, and did not see the blush that painted her cheeks.


	13. Chapter 13

_16 October 2009_

The boys had reinstated the old tradition of going out for drinks after work while Jen was away. Not every week, not even a specific day each month; their schedules were never regular enough for such a routine. But when they could, when they all clocked off around the same time, when they were all itching for something to do, when Matty could pull himself away from Emma long enough, the entire team would venture out to their usual pub, crawling with cops and the kind of girls who were looking for a cop to take home, and they'd settle themselves at a table in the back and have a beer or three apiece, just like the old days.

Well, almost like the old days. It was still Matt and Duncan and Jen and Simon, the four musketeers, the same friends who had been by her side for the last three years, but now Nick and Allie were there, too. It wasn't Allie's presence that made Jen anxious, that made Jen look forward to these nights with as much trepidation as relief; Nick had known the boys before Jen ever did, but then Nick had known Jen before the rest of them, too, and sometimes Jen found it difficult to toe the line between what she ought to know and what she _did,_ what she ought to say and what she wanted to say. And this night was harder than most, she thought as she sipped at her beer and tried her best to hide the distress that had begun to bubble up unpleasantly within her chest.

"Oh, come on, Simon, back in the day she would have been just your type," Matt was saying. A brunette at the bar had caught the boys' attention, and seemed to be enjoying it. She was pretty enough, Jen supposed, and her skirt was short, and there was no ring on her finger, and Matt was the only one of them with a steady partner; why shouldn't they have a go, if they wanted?

"Nah, mate," Si said with a shrug. "I need a break."

No doubt that was true, Jen thought; Simon's track record with women was bleak, although she realized as he spoke that it had been quite some time since she'd last heard one of his tales of crazy nights and crazier women. Maybe he was growing up, she thought, or maybe he just had too much on his plate.

"What about Nick?" Allie piped up from the other end of the table. Allie wasn't so bad, really; although Jen's initial hopes of finally having an ally on the team in the form of another woman had been dashed by Allie's brash attitude and desperate need to prove herself she found she liked the girl well enough, and she rather though that in time Allie would make a good detective. If Waverly didn't kick her off the squad for being insufferable first. Jen knew what Allie was doing, asking a question like that; as one of the only women allowed a seat at the boys' table situations like this were not uncommon, and the ladies really only had three choices. One, they could keep their mouths shut and let the boys have their fun, however distasteful. Two, they could point out when the gentlemen crossed the line, try to instill some sense of decorum; that almost never ended well, however, and risked alienating them from their teammates. Three, they could join in the fun, prove they were game for a laugh, prove they were just another one of the guys. Jen usually went for the first option, waiting for their moment of immaturity to pass, but Allie wanted, so badly, to be respected, to prove her worth, to be a part of the team, and she jumped right in without thinking.

"Nick was never one for trolling the bars, were you, mate?" Duncan said, and Jen relaxed infinitesimally.

They were seated at a round table, Nick and Jen almost directly opposite one another, and he caught her eye, then. He did not smile, exactly, but there was a knowing sort of expression on his face, one that told her he would endure whatever teasing the team dished out with good grace, but that he had no intention of joining in their good-natured ribbing.

It shouldn't matter to her, she knew, whether Nick and Simon had ever grown prowling for women together. It would have been in the old days, before she and Nick ever met, and it wasn't as if she had any claim on him, now or then. He was free to do what he liked, with whoever he liked, and so was she. Only...well, Jen didn't like the thought of Nick with someone else, and she didn't want to examine that displeasure too closely for fear of what she might find. He had held her, once, kissed her, touched her, loved her, maybe, but whatever they had been to one another before belonged to the past, now, and they could not share their secrets with the team. She would just have to grin and bear it.

"He did always have a thing for journos, though," Simon chimed in, and Matt and Duncan laughed together, as if it was an old joke they all recalled fondly.

"Yeah!" Allie said, a little too loud from a little too much booze. "There was that woman, what's-her-name, Nick's first case back? The sex traffickers?"

Jen had no idea what she was talking about; when Nick had first come back to Homicide, she was still seconded to Counterterrorism. She hadn't known at the time that he was even living in Melbourne, let alone working with her crew. They hadn't talked much about what she'd missed while she was away; Jen had been too distracted to ask, and the case of the hour always took precedence over closed files. There was so much she didn't know, she thought as she looked at him then; so many moments missed, so many details she'd never been privy to. It shouldn't have surprised her; it wasn't as if he'd ever been her boyfriend. He'd just been...her husband, and a stranger, both at the same time.

"Kim Charlton," Nick supplied helpfully.

"You were sweet on her, weren't you, Nick?" Matt said, still laughing. "I seem to recall she got her hands on some very detailed info after that case, and no one knew where it came from."

"No," Nick said, still looking at Jen. "I felt bad for her, that's all."

Jen knew it was true; she could see it in his face. He hadn't slept with the journo; well, at least not that one. Maybe there had been others; maybe Matt and Duncan and Simon knew something she didn't.

"All right, so Nick's out," Allie said, looking around the table. Matt was living happily with Emma, and Nick and Si had both begged off the brunette at the bar, and that only left -

"Duncan!" she said. "Maybe you oughta give it a go. Or wait, let me guess. Duncan only goes after blondes?"

A terrible, chilling silence fell over the table in the wake of those words. The laughter died in Matt's throat, and the smiles slid off all their faces. As one the boys dropped their gazes and stared silently into their beers, looking for all the world as if they wished the ground would open up and swallow them whole. A lump settled in the back of Jen's throat, and no amount of beer would dislodge it.

They were all thinking the same thing; Claire had been blonde. Bright, beautiful Claire, the one woman who'd caught Duncan's eye and kept it, the one he'd thought he'd spend the rest of his life with, the one he'd lost in the most horrific way imaginable. They were all thinking the same thing, Jen knew. Thinking about how they never talked about it, their grief and their fear, how they kept the darkness at bay by trying like hell to pretend it wasn't there. They never talked about it, how Duncan had lost Claire, how Matt had lost his mum. They never talked about how Duncan had been shot, how Jen had killed a teenage boy in front of his own mother. They never talked about Brian Van Der Burgh, or Warren Endicott. Talking about it would make it real, and once it was real, that fear, that sorrow, that overwhelming sense of loss, it would spell the end of all of them.

Though she was not always the first to pick up on the emotions of the people around her even Allie could sense that something dark and terrible had settled at the table.

"What?" she asked. "Does everybody here know something I don't know?"

"Yeah," Nick said softly. "Just leave it, Allie."

And somehow, miraculously, she did. Nick had a way of managing her that none of the rest of them had so far managed to match. She treated Si and Matt and Duncan like they were her big brothers, teased them and ignored what they said most of the time. With Jen she was a little more respectful, perhaps knowing that Jen's career was Bernice Waverly's own pet project and wanting to steer clear of any trouble, but mostly she did that by keeping her madcap schemes to herself and not bringing Jen into any of it. Nick, though, she _listened_ to Nick.

 _Everybody listens to Nick,_ Jen thought as she looked at him now, sober-faced and quiet. He didn't shout or pontificate or lecture, didn't throw his seniority around. He just... _was_ , was kind, to everyone, was thoughtful, always. When he gave advice people listened, because it was always sound, always well reasoned, always presented in a calm, palatable sort of way. That was one of the things she liked about him best; Nick never talked just to hear the sound of his own voice. When he had something to say, it was always worth hearing. And he listened, really listened, didn't just wait impatiently for his turn to speak but turned over every word that was said, gave every piece of a conversation its due consideration. She'd never known anyone like him before, not really, anyone who was as strong and capable as he, and yet did not possess an ounce of egotism. She'd never met anyone who made her feel seen, and known, and _loved-_

 _Stop it,_ she told herself reflexively. She'd been staring at him, and so she ducked her gaze, closed her eyes and took a sip of her beer. It was becoming harder by the day to convince herself that what she'd felt for him, all those years before, had been nothing but the result of being trapped in close quarters with no one to talk to but him for thirteen months straight. It was harder to believe, now, that she had only cared for him as a result of adrenaline and proximity, for now she saw him only at work and on these rare nights out, and what she saw made her feel... _oh,_ it made her feel the sort of thing she wasn't supposed to feel for one of her mates.

She wanted him to drive her home, when the drinks were done. He'd offer; she knew he would, because that was what he always did. She always told him _no,_ but she wanted to say _yes._ She wanted to sit with him on her sofa again, and talk to him openly, honestly, without anyone else watching, like she'd done the night he first turned up in Matt's kitchen. She wanted to know what would happen, if he'd fall asleep beside her again, if he'd want to.

But it didn't matter, she knew. It didn't matter what she wanted, didn't matter how her heart stuttered in her chest at the thought of him with someone else. Choosing Nick would mean losing the job, and she would never dream of making such a sacrifice for a man she'd known for less than two months. Not even for Nick.

"Been to the Oval recently, Dunny?" Nick asked quietly, and just like that the conversation started again. Allie was pouting, no doubt feeling left out, but no one at that table had any intention of explaining to her the misstep that she'd made. Duncan was clearly grateful for the distraction Nick had provided, and in no time at all they were laughing again. Because of Nick, because he had recognized the problem, and found the solution, and led them all through it, the way he always did.

 _Damn him,_ she thought fondly.


	14. Chapter 14

_20 September 2004_

Nick had always been a creature of habit, had always found himself comfortable in the structure of routine, and his new life as Wesley Claybourne was no different. Each morning he rose around 6:00, and slipped into his trainers and his track pants, and padded quietly out of his room, and every morning Trish met him in the kitchen. Every morning they would smile softly to one another, and they would go out the door together, and she would lock the door behind them, and he would slip the house key into his pocket, and then they would run.

In his old life, his real life, Nick went for a run every morning before work unless he was called in early; on those days he ran in the evenings, sweat rolling down his back while he tried to clear his mind, tried to think about anything other than the case at hand. He liked the rhythm of it, one foot, then the other, breathing in time to the steady slap of his shoes against the pavement. He liked the quiet of the morning, while the sun crested slowly over the trees, and he liked the sleepy activity of the evenings, while his neighbors settled themselves down for the night. He liked to see birds wheeling overhead, when they came, and he liked to see the leaves rustling in the breeze. For one precious hour each day there were no ringing phones, no one to appease, no lies to tell or stories to remember; there was just Nick, and the breeze, and the birds.

And now, Trish. The first few days he'd gone out on his own, but then one morning when he rolled out of bed she was waiting for him, and that was that. He had worried, the first time, that she might not be able to keep up with him; his legs were longer, and he wasn't sure whether she ran in her other life, her real life, wasn't sure if she was up for it. Trish had set him straight on that score; she kept pace with him easily, and never seemed to tire. There was no competition between them, no attempt to goad or best one another, and there was often very little conversation. Just the slap of shoes on pavement, just the ragged sounds of breathing, just the bouncing of her ponytail, glinting in the early morning sunlight. Nick liked that, too, liked that she didn't feel the need to fill that time with noise, that her presence didn't disturb his peacefulness; she shared in it, rather than taking it from him, and he liked that, too.

Today was no different; Monday morning, cool and bright, everything around them green and budding in the first weeks of spring. She'd met him in the kitchen, wearing stretchy black workout pants and a tight white tank top that made his heart skip a beat, looking somehow fresh and beautiful, still, despite the artless way she'd tied back her hair, despite the earliness of the hour. Trish locked the door, Nick pocketed the key, and off they went.

Their early morning runs had also helped them both develop more of a familiarity with their surroundings. They'd average somewhere between four to six miles in a day; two or three miles out, two or three miles back. They'd run it in every possible direction, discovered every side street and every intersection, until they knew that little corner of Sydney like the backs of their hands. When they ran Nick tried to keep up with their surroundings; who always left for work early, whose shades were always tied back no matter the time of day, which houses seemed vacant, which fences butted up to which gardens, mapping out escapes routes that didn't involve the main roads and wouldn't land him face to face with some terrifying dog. Idly he wondered if Trish had done the same; if she did, they didn't talk about it.

They just ran. Easy, comfortable, they ran side by side, Trish sliding in behind him smoothly if they chanced across a pedestrian, swinging back out to join him once the way was clear. Nick kept his eyes ahead, not wanting to miss his footing and go tumbling out into the road, but he could see her, in the corner of his eye. Could see her golden hair, her golden skin, the way sweat sparkled at the base of her throat like diamonds on a chain. He could see the black bra she wore under her shirt, could see the powerful flexing of her muscles beneath her soft clothes. He saw, and he smiled, and he kept running.

 _We could keep going forever,_ he thought. _Never turn back. Straight down to the harbor, use the SIS credit card to rent a boat, go out across the water._ There were no clouds in the rich blue sky above his head, and the spring sun was cheery. No one would miss Wesley Claybourne if he didn't turn up for work today; the operation went swimmingly without the boss micromanaging. Trish had taken the accounting staff well in hand, and they'd manage without her, for one day. He could ring Maria at the office, tell her he wanted to take a sickie. It wouldn't make a difference, he thought; why would SIS care, if he took a day off? He'd been working relentlessly, living in Wesley Claybourne's skin for seven weeks now, for months before that as they prepared him for this task. Surely, he thought, he deserved a day off, and so did Trish. Even the weekends they spent rattling around the house were hardly leisurely, as they both knew the house was full of cameras, knew they were being watched every second. On a boat, out on the water, though, there would be no cameras, no microphones, no Hartono, just Nick, and Trish, whoever she was. _Maybe she'd like to swim_ , he thought. _Maybe she knows how to fish._

It was a gentle thought, a cheerful one, but he didn't dare give it voice. This wasn't a job like any other, and he knew it. There were no sick days, no rostered days off, no spontaneous jaunts out on the water, just Nick and his wife. After thirty minutes they turned back, and thirty minutes after that they were rounding the corner, their little house coming into view, and all Nick's thoughts about the water, and Trish in a bikini, vanished in an instant, for as they loped towards their home he caught sight of a strange car parked outside, and a dark headed man waiting on the steps.

"Hartono," he said, trying to disguise the movements of his lips on a breathy gasp.

"Showtime," Trish answered.

He walked down from the steps and met them on the drive; Trish and Nick stood close together, hands on their hips, panting, trying to look friendly. Hartono's associate, Mr. Prakoso, was sitting behind the wheel of the dark car Hartono had evidently arrived in, and the back of Nick's neck prickled as if he could feel the weight of the man's stare upon his shoulders.

"Mr. Hartono," Nick said as jovially as he could manage. "This is a surprise. I'd shake your hand, but…" he gestured to his sweat-slicked body, and a grimace that might have been an attempt at a smile flickered across Hartono's face.

"I appreciate your consideration," Hartono said dryly. "I was worried when you did not answer your phone that perhaps something bad might have happened. But I saw that your car was still here, and I waited. I am glad, now. I don't often wait."

Nick's mind was racing, his heart pounding as much from adrenaline as from the exertion of the run. He never took his mobile on their morning runs; perhaps that was a mistake. What if SIS had tried to warn them? And just how long had Hartono been waiting? Had he managed to find some entry to the house, poked around? Oh, _Christ,_ what if he had, what if he found the cameras, what if -

"I'm glad, too," Nick said easily. "Would you like to come in? Have a cup of tea? It'll only take me a minute to clean up."

They'd been waiting for this for weeks now. Hartono had not reached out after their initial introduction, and though they'd encountered one another again at a garden party the weekend before, he still hadn't rung them. SIS was getting antsy and Trish had been about to crawl out of her skin from nerves. Now that Hartono had sought them out deliberately, not at the office but at their home in the early hours of the morning - _wait a second,_ Nick thought, suddenly terrified, _we never gave him our address -_ it seemed like their luck was finally changing. He could only hope it was for the better.

"Thank you, but no," Hartono said. He had the most terrifyingly monotone sort of voice; it was impossible to tell what he was thinking or feeling at any given time. There was something cold, unfeeling about him, a ruthlessness that Nick had seldom encountered in anyone save for the most heartless of killers. And this man had found his house, and no doubt gathered that Nick and his wife went out at the same time every morning; Hartono had already found a way to make him vulnerable, and Nick still knew nothing at all about the man himself.

"I'll leave you and your lovely wife to enjoy the rest of your morning. There's a cafe on York Street, near the French Centre. Do you know it?"

"Yes," Nick said. He didn't, actually, but he had several maps of the city and SIS on speed dial; he was certain he could find it.

"Meet me there at 10:00. We'll have coffee, and we'll talk. I have a proposition for you."

"I'm looking forward to it, then," Nick said.

"Very well. Good morning, Mr. Claybourne. Mrs. Claybourne." Hartono nodded to them both, and then left them, making his way back to the car where Mr. Prakoso waited for him. Trish offered them both a bright smile and a cheery wave, and then she took Nick's hand, and they went into the house together.

The moment the door closed behind them Trish swore.

"Shit," she said. "How long do you think he was here? We shouldn't have kept him waiting, we shouldn't have been unreachable."

"It'll be all right, sweetheart," Nick said, kicking off his trainers and peeling off his sweaty socks right there in the foyer. Trish wrinkled her nose but didn't comment on his less than hygienic behavior.

"We've got a meeting now," he continued. "We'll go and get cleaned up, and I'll drive you into work, and then I'll go and meet with Mr. Hartono."

He doubted that Hartono had been in the house; the windows were all locked, there was a bar across the back door, and the front door had been bolted. He'd need some serious kit to break in, and it would have been a big risk, considering he had no way of knowing whether they were inside, or when they would be coming back if they weren't. Besides, he had men to do dirty work like that for him, he'd never stoop so low himself.

 _He might have put a tracker on the car, though,_ Nick thought glumly. Well, let him track. Nick would meet him at the coffee shop as planned, and then he'd go to work. He parked in a garage at the office, and it wouldn't be too difficult to slide beneath the car once he got there, and see what turned up.

"I don't like the thought of you out there on your own," Trish grumbled. "We're supposed to be a team."

"It'll be all right," Nick said again. "He's chosen a public meeting place, he's not going to try anything now. He's just trying to get a feel for us."

"What if he's just trying to make sure the house is empty, so his men can come back and bug us?"

"SIS is watching," Nick reminded her, gesturing towards the ceiling and the hidden cameras. "It'll be all right. Now come on, let's get cleaned up."

And so they did, retreating to their separate bathrooms and their separate worries.


	15. Chapter 15

_20 September 2004_

Nick had never realized before that it was possible for someone to read _angrily_ , but Trish managed it. The furrow in her brow, the set of her mouth, the almost violent way she turned each page communicated her displeasure so articulately she might as well have been yelling at him, and if he wasn't so concerned he might have laughed at this display of peevishness.

All through dinner she'd been grumpy, asking him questions like he was a suspect on the other side of the interview table, and not her partner. Where had he met Hartono, who else was there, what had they discussed; round and round he went, trying to explain himself to her, and when they were finished eating she abruptly rose and left the room, left Nick to wash up the dishes by himself, and wonder why she was so cross. As far as he could tell today had been a win for them; Hartono had sought them out and arranged an inspection of their premises for later in the week, with the understanding that if he liked what he saw he'd engage their services. It was what they'd wanted all along, to get close enough to learn how he ran his business, and build a case against him. It was the whole reason they'd come to Sydney in the first place. So why was she acting as if she were personally insulted by his meeting with Hartono?

After he finished the washing up he settled down in front of the telly - there really wasn't anything else to do - and Trish eventually came to join him, flung herself into her favorite armchair with her book in her hands, but though he had hoped, initially, that it was an overture of sorts, a sign that she was ready to move on from the tension that had so colored their dinner, she proceeded to ignore him for the next half hour. She managed to make her disinterest very loud.

That simply wouldn't do. Whatever was bothering her, Nick knew they needed to deal with it, now. They couldn't afford to be at cross-purposes with one another, couldn't allow hurt feelings to fester, not when they were meant to be a team. Whatever this was, they were going to have to talk about it. Talking wasn't exactly Nick's favorite activity, but he understood the necessity for it, and so, at last, he broached the subject without any preamble.

"You want to talk to me about what's bothering you?" he said softly. "Whatever it is, it's not the book's fault."

Trish slammed the book closed and tossed it onto the sofa, her eyes flashing at him from across the room.

"Do we need to talk about it?" she fired back. "Or are you just going to handle it by yourself the same way you handle everything else?"

"You're mad because I went to see Hartono alone?" That surprised him; they'd already had that particular conversation twice today, once just after Hartono left and again when Nick dropped Trish off at work. He'd thought, before now, that they'd put the matter to bed; he hadn't realized she was still stewing on it.

"You went to Hartono. You made the arrangements for the meeting. You briefed Abdul, and you're working on the security arrangements with him. That's a lot of _you,_ and not any _us,_ Wesley." All of that was true; it was Nick who'd reached out to their minder after he had coffee with Hartono, and Abdul was running the plans for the next meeting through Nick, but he hadn't realized before now that it would bother her so much, him taking point.

"That's just how it worked out this time," Nick pointed out carefully. _Christ,_ it really was like being married, having to dance around her, having to moderate his tone, trying to keep her happy, and not make things worse.

"That's how it's worked every time!" she snapped. "You're the one wheeling and dealing with the boys and all I've done so far is go for manicures and make some spreadsheets. I didn't sign up for this job to be window dressing, Wesley."

"You're not." He said it earnestly, shocked as he was by her candor, by the idea that she felt useless, when he knew for a fact he would have been lost without her. Trish just scoffed and looked away. "You aren't," he added. "Trish, you're coming with me to the meeting with Hartono. I've already told him I don't make any business decisions without my wife. He's curious about you. And pretty soon he's going to see you aren't just prettier than all the other wives, you're smarter than them, too."

For a moment he worried that he'd overstepped; Trish was watching him with a strange look in her eyes, and her cheeks went a bit pink as he complimented her. He hadn't meant to say it, but the moment the words were out of his mouth he knew them to be true. She _was_ prettier than all the other wives; she was, he thought, the prettiest woman he'd ever seen in real life. But she was sharp, clever, quick on her feet, and brave, too, and she needed to know what he saw in her, needed to know that he valued her as a partner, that if he had to be married to someone he was so bloody grateful it was _her._

"You didn't tell me I'm coming to the meeting," she said. The fire that had raged within her moments before had been quelled, and her words carried no heat at all. Only now did Nick realize his mistake in not telling her sooner that he had planned for her to be by his side when Hartono came to Claybourne Shipping.

"I thought it was a given," he told her. To him it had been; he wouldn't make any moves without her. But she hadn't known that, before now, and Nick supposed he'd have to be better in the future about talking things through with her. It wasn't safe to make assumptions; she didn't know what he was thinking.

"Well," she said. "Good then."

Nick smiled, and leaned down towards the end of the sofa, picked up her book and tossed it gently to her. Trish caught it easily, though she still looked a little sheepish about the whole thing.

"You and me, Trish," he told her. "We're a team."

"That's all I want," she said, looking down at the book in her hands. "I don't want you out there alone. And I don't want to sit here, doing nothing, when I could be helping."

"You're not going to go to waste, here," he said. "You're the brains of the operation."

"Damn right," she said, and Nick laughed, and just like that everything went back to normal. Or at least, as close to normal as life in that house ever got.

* * *

The conversation with Wesley had been revealing for Jen, in more ways than one. His cavalier attitude, the fact that so far _he_ was the one handling all their business connections, had left her anxious and worried for the future of the operation, but she realized now she never should have doubted him; Wesley trusted her, and he told her everything, and he had proven himself to be reliable and remarkably lacking in machismo.

_You aren't just prettier than all the other wives, you're smarter than them, too._

His gentle words echoed in her mind as she settled herself down for sleep in the daybed in the office. The cramped, rather hard daybed where she slept alone. That little bed was intended more for show, for the occasional one night guest, had not been designed with comfort in mind, and she was having a hard time relaxing tonight. Wesley had complimented her so easily she knew he had to have been sincere, and now he was sleeping just across the hall from her, lying down in the big plush bed that was meant for both of them together, while she was stuck alone in the office, thinking of him.

He thought she was pretty. She felt silly, almost juvenile, blushing about it now, but the knowledge that he appreciated what he saw when he looked at her - and that he appreciated her intelligence, too, that was not to be ignored - left a warmth settling in her belly that had nothing at all to do with the doona she'd buried herself under. It was somehow very important to her, to know that he was not unaffected by her; she'd been appreciating his broad shoulders and his warm eyes from the moment they met, and living here, with him, under this roof, had only made her feel...well, fond, and more than fond, of him. She wanted _him_ to be fond of her, too.

 _And that's why you're staying in here,_ she reminded herself. This wasn't a matchmaking operation; Jen was here to catch a gunrunner, and a killer, to put an end to this ring of criminals and to spare all the people who would be hurt if these men weren't stopped. She was here to do a _job,_ not to fawn over a handsome man, and sleeping in separate beds helped to maintain the boundaries between Jen and her Wesley.

Only just now, tonight, she was wishing she wasn't alone. Wesley had met with Hartono, and now the ball was rolling, and the thought of what must surely come next left her stomach in knots. Hartono knew where they lived, now, and he'd arranged to meet with them at their offices after hours. _What if he knows?_ She asked herself. _What if he's going to try to take us out of the equation? What if the meeting is a trap? Or what if it's a distraction; what if he comes back here? What if he sends some of his men round here, and Wesley and I are in separate rooms?_

If Hartono came round, popped in for a cup of tea or picked their lock while they were at work or sent some men to rough them up, and he found out they weren't sleeping in the same room, surely that would confirm any suspicions he had about them, and blow the whole operation. Or worse, if Hartono already knew exactly what they were and sent men to eliminate them, they'd be more vulnerable on account of being separated. Easy pickings for the sort of ruthless killers Hartono employed. The office felt very small, just then, and Jen felt very small in it, wearing a lightweight vest and her knickers and nothing else. How could she and Wesley protect themselves, protect each other, when they were each alone?

Maybe if he'd been beside her, her thoughts wouldn't echo so loudly. Maybe she could roll over to face him in the darkness, and confess her fears, and his reassuring whisper could help ease her into sleep. Maybe if they were in the same place she wouldn't feel so left out of the operation; maybe he'd get loose-lipped when he was tired, and tell her more about his thoughts, his plans. About himself. Maybe she'd sleep better, with his weight beside her.

But Jen had made her choice. She'd chosen the office on the first day, wanting to have a bit of privacy, and she could only imagine what Wesley would think of her if she tried to change her mind now. Now that he'd told her he thought she was _pretty._ It would give entirely the wrong impression if she tried to insinuate herself into his bed now. Even if she was lonesome, and scared, even if she thought it made more sense from an operational standpoint, there was no denying that she was a woman, and he was a man, and they were _fond_ of one another, and sharing a bed would never be just about _sharing_ _a bed_. Not for her, not with him.

 _It'll be fine,_ she told herself, listening to soft ticking of her watch, now clearly audible in the silence of the office late at night. _Everything is going to be fine._

* * *

Across the hall Nick lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The bed was much too big for him by himself, and the room was much too quiet. In the stillness he could almost imagine the sound of her breathing, soft and steady in sleep. He could almost imagine her beside him. Maybe it was just that he wanted her with him so badly that his restless mind had conjured thoughts of her to lull him into dreams. It wasn't just that she was beautiful; he'd met plenty of beautiful women, and he hadn't wanted to sleep with all of them. It wasn't even that he wanted sex. There were cameras and mics all through the house, even in the bedroom; it wasn't as if he actually thought they could get away with something like that. He just...he wanted to protect her. He wanted them to be a _team_ , and he wanted to keep her safe, and both of those goals were all but impossible to achieve with two closed doors between them. Suppose Hartono was on to them, and sent his goons into the house? If they were smart they'd check every room as they went, and that meant they'd come across Nick and his Trish separately. There would be no time for him to help her, to come to her aid. If only she was with him, he could see for himself that she was safe. Maybe then he could sleep. But Trish had made her choice, and she'd made it plain she wasn't interested in sleeping beside him, not for any reason. He thought he'd get used to it, as the days dragged on, but each night he laid down without her he only found it harder to bear, only found himself wondering, more and more, what she was thinking, what would happen next.

 _It'll be fine,_ he told himself. _Everything is going to be fine._


	16. Chapter 16

_1 December 2009_

"Here."

Jen looked up sharply; she'd not heard him approach, had in fact been so lost in her report and the terrors of the hour that she'd quite forgotten he was there. He caught her troubled look, and shot her a wan little smile as he handed over the cup of tea he'd brought for her. It was a quick, painless transaction, and as Jen settled back in her chair with her hands around the mug Nick returned to his desk, apparently satisfied now that his overture had been accepted.

Jen wasn't satisfied; Jen was the farthest thing in the world from satisfied, just then. It was late, and she should have been at home, in bed, not caught up in this mess. There was no other word for it; it was a _mess_ , had been a _mess,_ from start to finish, and it was no cleaner now that they'd identified their killer. In fact, the truth had only made things worse.

 _He's just a baby,_ she thought, staring at the photo of Jordan Hansard. He was a _child,_ and he had been raised in hell, caught in the endless cycle of violence and quarrels between his parents. He was a _child,_ and he had mustered every ounce of his little-boy bravery, and done the only thing he could think of in a desperate attempt to protect his mother. He had shot and killed his own father, nevermind that he was too young to understand what it meant. And now, now Jen would have to write it all up in a report. A sanitized, pared down version of events, _just the facts, ma'am._ It wasn't Jen's job to explain Jordan's state of mind, to explain his trauma, to explain how he had been so shaken that he could not even speak, could only communicate through his little stuffed monkey, Alfie. There was no room in the report for Alfie's testimony. The business of defending Jordan's state of mind would fall to Social Services, and it lay far outside Jen's remit.

But she couldn't stop thinking about that bloody monkey.

"Bad business," Nick said softly.

He wasn't looking at her, was instead staring determinedly at his computer, but he knew where her thoughts had gone. As if there could be any doubt, after a day like the one she'd had. What Jen couldn't reckon, though, was what Nick was doing still in the office. Everyone else had buggered off home, and he didn't have anything on his plate that should have kept him there so late. And yet, there he sat; he'd brought her tea, and he was pecking away at his keyboard, and for one mad moment Jen found herself wondering if he'd stayed just for her, to keep an eye on her, to make sure she was all right.

"Yeah," she said. There wasn't anything else to say on the subject. _Yeah,_ it was a bad business. _Yeah,_ it was one of the more disturbing cases she'd seen, not on account of the violence of the act itself but on account of the damage it had done. Jordan's whole future would be defined by this one act. He'd be sent to a facility, even if he was charged as a juvenile, would be subjected to a trial and interviews with psychologists. For the rest of his life he would carry the knowledge of what he'd done; it seemed he had a gentle heart, now, but would that change? Would institutionalization degrade his tenderness, leave him hard and angry? How was he supposed to make friends, to date, to do all the things that most people did, when his life would be the furthest thing in the world from _normal?_

"That trick with the monkey, that was a good call," Nick said.

He wasn't usually this chatty, and though a part of Jen wished he would just shut the hell up she knew what he was doing, knew that his heart was in the right place, and she tried not to hold it against him. Even if she didn't want to talk about it, even if she wanted to pretend it had never happened at all, the truth was Jen _needed_ to talk about it, and Nick knew it. He wasn't chatty, but he never let a problem go unaddressed. It just wasn't his way.

"I got lucky," she said.

"You earned his trust," Nick countered, refusing to let her disparage herself. "You took the time to get to know him, to find a way to relate to him. Allie couldn't have done that. I'm not sure any of us would have seen it, but you did."

On another day she might have blushed, to hear him praise her. On another day she might have admonished him for being so transparent in his kindness towards her; it had only been three months since their reunion, and they were still doing everything they could to keep their previous connection to one another a secret. New colleagues didn't talk to each other the way Nick talked to Jen, but she couldn't bring herself to chastise him, not now, not tonight. He was only trying to encourage her, she knew, was only trying to support her, was only trying to remind her that she was good at her job, that it wasn't her fault. She was trying, very hard, to believe him.

"I wish I hadn't," she confessed. "I wish we'd never worked this one out."

Nick gave up any pretense of working, then, abandoned his computer and turned his full attention to her.

"He needs to talk about it, and he'll need professional help to deal with what he's done. If you hadn't found the truth, he'd spend the rest of his life lying about it. He'd be running away forever. You gave him a chance to move on from this."

"It doesn't feel that way."

And it didn't; it really didn't. It felt to Jen like she'd ended that child's life just the same as he'd ended his father's, as if in discovering the truth she'd stolen his future from him, and no amount of kind words from Nick would change her mind on that score. Not tonight, anyway.

"If you won't be proud of yourself, let me be proud of you."

It was never dark in the station. There was always someone working somewhere, even if most of the detectives worked day shifts. The lights in the offices behind her were out and the world beyond the windows was black with night but inside the fluorescents glowed overhead, and there was no mistaking the warmth of his gaze, the earnest sincerity of his expression. He _was_ proud of her, and for now she supposed that would have to be enough.

"Matty says you're the best with the kids," Nick continued then. "Allie's too rough and Simon scares them and Matt doesn't know what to do with himself and Duncan is...Duncan. Matty says they always respond to you, though."

"He just says that because I'm a woman."

That wasn't entirely true, and Jen knew it. Allie was a woman, too, but the kids they encountered didn't trust her, not really. She'd scared the shit out of the Leeds boy, back when Jen first came back on the job, pushed him too hard and alienated him. There was no universal instinct that helped all women on the force bond with their child witnesses; Jen wasn't just the only girl on the squad, anymore, and she couldn't hide behind that excuse. She _was_ the best with the kids.

"You ever think about having kids?"

Jen nearly choked on her tea. What had possessed him to ask a question like _that?_ Seriously, gravely, like he meant it, like he really wanted to know. It was so off base; they weren't supposed to do this, sit alone after hours and talk about personal things like they'd known each other for years. Like they were invested in the answers. Duncan had never asked her if she wanted kids; Matt certainly hadn't. The thought that any of them could possibly be parents had probably never even occurred to Simon or Allie. But it had occurred to Nick, and Jen tried not to think too long or too hard about why Nick was different.

"It was never the right time."

"That's not what I asked."

Jen leaned back in her chair, the report forgotten, her arms crossed over her chest, and she looked at him, tried to get a read on him, tried to understand why it suddenly mattered so much to him, the thought of her being a mum. _He looks tired,_ she thought; there were dark circles under his eyes, and his shirt was wrinkled at the end of a long day. _I probably do, too._ She was tired, down to her bones, wanted nothing more than to lay down in her bed and sleep. Nothing more, except maybe to fall asleep with him beside her, but her mind shied away from that thought as a rabbit retreating at the call of a hawk.

"Never had the right partner," she said, and immediately regretted it.

None of the men she'd been with had really been father material, in the end. None of them had been the sort of man she'd want to raise a child with. That didn't mean she didn't want a child of her own; there was a piece of her heart, however small, that thought it might be...nice, to have a baby. That thought of a home, and a husband, and a child, and felt yearning. The job took up too much of her time, though, and she'd never found a man she cared about more than the job.

 _Nick would be a good dad, though,_ she thought, looking at him. Nick was steady, not prone to anger or selfishness, gentle when he needed to be, strong when he needed to be. Nick liked doing all the things dads did, in her mind, fishing and hiking and watching the footie and manning the barbecue and home repairs. Any woman would be lucky to raise a child with a man like him.

"Me neither," he said, softly, and then she understood. Just like that, it all clicked into place. Nick had spent the day thinking about kids, too. Nick had spent the day thinking how unfair it was, that sometimes children were born into the most unfortunate circumstances, raised by people who didn't care for them, protect them, the way they should. And based on the tone of his voice, the look in his eye, she felt as if she could see right through him, could see that in his heart he wanted to be a father. Under the right circumstances. With the right partner.

"Too late now," Jen said. Nick was nearly forty, Jen not far behind him, and thoughts of children and family and home seemed to belong to other people, younger people, people less set in their ways, people who did not spend each day up to their elbows in blood and the worst humanity had to offer. That ship had sailed; a part of her might have yearned for that life, but the rest of her knew she'd made her choice. She had the job she'd worked so hard for, sacrificed everything for. Every morning she woke up fortified by the knowledge that her work mattered, that she was helping people, that the sacrifices were worth it, in the end.

"Is it?" he asked, and her heart skipped a beat, lost in his eyes. _Is it too late? For a husband, for kids, for a family, for a life outside the office? Is it too late for me? Is it too late for us?_ If things had been different, if Nick had walked back into her life years before, if he hadn't been on the same team, if any romantic entanglement between them hadn't been expressly forbidden, would she think it was too late to try her hand at that other life, with him? _Yes,_ she thought, staring at her tea. _No,_ she thought, looking up at him.

"Yeah," she said, because she felt that she must, because now was not the time to be having this conversation, not with him. Not alone with him, not late at night, not after the day she'd had, not when she was feeling like this, raw and exposed and heartsick.

"It's late," she added, starting up the process of closing down her computer for the night. "I'm gonna head home, get some sleep."

"You want me to drive you?"

For a moment she considered it. Sitting alone with him in the dark, the car quiet, the city lights flashing by outside the windows. She thought about inviting him in, leading him to her bed, falling asleep beside him, taking what comfort she could from him before dawn broke and reminded her of her responsibilities. She thought about the weight of his arm around her waist as she slept, and she sighed.

"Not tonight, Nick." If she let him take her home now, God only knew what would happen, but Jen knew whatever it was she wasn't ready for it. She wasn't ready for the way she felt when she looked at him, the way memories blurred the lines between past and present, the way hope left her desperate. She wasn't ready for any of it.

"Fair enough," he said, and delicately let the subject drop, for which she was deeply grateful. Maybe he understood, she thought. Maybe he wasn't ready, either.


	17. Chapter 17

_22 October 2004_

"I think we understand one another, Mr. Claybourne," Hartono said as he reached into his jacket pocket and removed a pair of sleek, expensive leather gloves. "I think we are both businessmen, and I think we respect one another. Is that not so?"

"I believe it is," Wesley said evenly. Jen had to hand it to him; he had learned, and quickly, how to regulate his speech to suit his audience. With Frank he was wry and occasionally condescending, with the lads he was jocular and easy-going, with Jen he was earnest and occasionally teasing, and with Hartono he was, always, calm and unsmiling. It wasn't mimicry, exactly; if he was just parroting Hartono's tone the man would have noticed. It was mirroring, instead; not an exact duplication of Hartono's eerily distant demeanor, but a reflection of his emotionless calm, and Hartono seemed to approve. In detective training Jen had been taught to do the same thing, to tweak her own energy to match whatever she saw in interview, to make a witness feel more comfortable, or rattle a suspect. Maybe SIS had taught Wesley the same, or maybe he was just that good.

They were standing together in the dockyard; it was late on a Friday evening, and Hartono had arranged for the Claybournes to be present while he opened his latest container. It was the fourth they had brought in for him so far, and he appeared pleased with their efforts so far. The first three containers had been perfectly above board, stocked with cheap goods made in various parts of Asia and shipped over to sell, but for the fourth he had requested that the Claybournes find a way to skip the usual customs process. It was a test, no doubt; a few legitimate shipments, so he could get a feel for how their business operated and how they all might work together, and then the fourth, a test of loyalty, a test of how far they were willing to go. If Trish and Wesley had told him no, they weren't willing to give customs the runaround, he would know that their business relationship could not continue. If they'd bungled it and wound up with customs breathing down their necks, Hartono would know the Claybournes were not sophisticated enough to be trusted with his goods. As it happened, however, SIS had cleared the way for them, and the container had been brought to shore with all its paperwork in proper order, despite the fact that customs had never even looked inside. There was a strip of tape across the door that had been laid there in Indonesia, tape that would have been broken if customs took a peek, but the tape was still immaculate, and so stood as silent proof to the Claybournes' skills of evasion.

"It is not enough to _think_ we understand one another, however," Hartono continued.

As he spoke Jen felt a chill settle over her that had nothing at all to do with the wind coming in off the water. The dockyard was dark, and there was no one around, no one save for Trish and Wesley, and Hartono, flanked by Mr. Parakoso and three more of his goons. They were outnumbered, and while Abdul had assured them that SIS would be watching their backs Jen didn't feel safe, or protected; she felt exposed, vulnerable, felt an itch between her shoulder blades as if she could sense the sight of a rifle scope trained on her there.

"My business is about trust, Mr. Claybourne."

Hartono always addressed Wesley directly. He had been somewhat reluctant to involve Trish in their dealings at the outset, but Jen's confidence had won him round, and he now simply ignored her, which Jen understood to be the closest to acceptance she would ever receive from him.

"We intend to earn your trust," Wesley answered seriously. "We value your business, and we value the privacy of our customers."

"That's good," Hartono said. "But trust requires commitment. I need to know that you are committed to maintaining our good relationship."

Hartono turned and barked an order to one of his associates in a language Jen didn't recognize, and the man jumped forward at once, and began the business of opening the container.

"I have asked you to do a dangerous thing for me, and you have done it without asking questions. I appreciate that. But you need to know what it is we are about, here."

Suddenly it all became clear to Jen. Hartono needed to cover his own ass, and to do that he needed to make sure that Trish and Wesley Claybourne's hands were just as dirty as his own. They had drunk from the poisoned cup; now that they had flouted the law for his sake, there would be no going back. Once they knew what was inside the container they would be guilty by association, and if they continued to work for him they would only dig themselves deeper into the hole. The only way to save their own skin would be to keep his secrets. It was a clever ploy; if Trish and Wesley hadn't already been in SIS's pocket, this little move of his would have delivered them completely into his hands. There was something of the ruthless drug dealer about him; he had given them a taste, and now he had them on the hook, and there was nowhere to go and nothing for them to do but hang.

The container was unlocked, and the three workmen together pulled the door open. Hartono spoke again in that language that might have been Javanese, and one of the men pulled a torch from his back pocket.

"With me, please," Hartono said, and Jen and Wesley stepped up behind him, followed him as he took the torch for himself and led the way into the container.

It was pitch black and airless inside, but the beam from the torch revealed pallets of wooden crates stacked from floor to ceiling, each one emblazoned with a logo that read _Sunrise Imports._ There was a crate standing isolated to the right of the door, and it was there that Hartono led them. He snapped his fingers, and one of the men jumped forward, a crowbar suddenly in his hands. Silence settled heavily around them, Jen's heart pounding so loudly within her chest she was certain Hartono could hear it. _This is it,_ she thought.

The man with the crowbar pried the lid off the crate and then stepped back, panting just a little.

"Have a look," Hartono said.

Trish and Wesley stepped up to the crate together; their backs were to Hartono now, and Jen instinctively reached for Wesley's hand. She was scared, and she rather thought Hartono _wanted_ her to be scared, and so she did not worry about hiding the touch from his gaze. She drew comfort from the strength of Wesley's hand wrapped around her own, and she thought the sight of it might reassure Hartono that the Claybournes were precisely who they claimed to be, a married couple who ran a successful shipping enterprise and had just gotten themselves in over their heads.

Inside the crate there lay several heavy-duty guns, carefully packed in straw. AR-15s, mostly, the stocks gleaming blackly in the glow from the torch. _This_ was what they'd been waiting for. Proof of what Hartono was doing lay in front of them, stark and undeniable.

Except they didn't have proof, not really. His name didn't appear on any of the ledgers, and it did not appear on the paperwork for Sunrise Imports. His entry to the dockyards had not been logged, and he wore gloves, now, leaving no prints in or on the container. As far as Jen was aware there was no video footage of Hartono, now or ever. All they had was the evidence before their own eyes, and that was not enough for the courts. They knew without a shadow of a doubt that Hartono was running the operation, and now they had the guns, but they could not draw a line connecting the two. Not yet. Frustration bit at her; they were so _close_ , but they did not have enough on him, not yet.

"You see why we did not want to trouble customs with this," Hartono said, and at the sound of his voice Trish and Wesley turned away from the crate, and faced him once more. "My question is, can you be trusted with it?"

"Your business is your own affair," Wesley said, his calm voice doing nothing to betray his own feelings. "You hired us to bring your goods safely to port, and we will do that for as long as this relationship continues."

There was the faintest edge of a threat to his words, and if Jen hadn't been so bloody terrified she could have burst with her pride of him. Hartono had pushed; now Wesley was pushing back. Now Hartono could see that he had not purchased a devoted pet poodle, but rather a bulldog who was looking after his own interests. _As long as this relationship continues;_ the words had been cleverly chosen to highlight the fact that Hartono needed them as much as they needed him. If they were ever going to get the evidence they needed, Hartono would have to respect them, and Wesley was building that respect minute by minute.

In the darkness Hartono smiled.

And then, without warning, without so much as a change in his expression or a deep breath to indicate that something was afoot, he turned, drew a small handgun from the waistband of his trousers beneath his jacket, and shot the man with the crowbar between the eyes.

Jen did not scream; she could not find her voice. Still she held Wesley's hand, so tight both their knuckles had turned white, but neither of them moved or made a sound as the man's body crumpled to the ground, as Hartono watched with the dead, uncaring eyes of a shark. The two other men he'd brought with him had flinched at the sound of the gunshot; they looked rather as if this wasn't the first time they'd seen one of their own murdered right in front of them. There was a silencer on the end of it - _that's a nice piece of kit,_ Jen thought numbly - so while the sound was still loud it had not deafened them. Mr. Parakoso was still standing outside, but he did not come running when the gun went off, when the man landed heavily on the floor. Perhaps he had known already what was coming.

"This man," Hartono said as calmly as if they were discussing the weather, "was a police informant. He had thought to turn me over to the authorities. He betrayed my trust. And now you see how I handle betrayers. Do we understand one another?"

"Perfectly," Wesley answered. He met Hartono's gaze steadily, and did not so much as glance at the dead man on the floor, or the pool of blood beneath him.

"Good, then. I will have some business for you on Monday. You may leave now."

Hartono's presence in the dockyard at this time of night was strictly prohibited, and now he intended to remain with his associates, without Trish and Wesley there to keep an eye on him. It was highly illegal, highly unethical, but he had dismissed them, and if they did not leave now, they risked his wrath.

"One last thing, Mr. Claybourne," Hartono said as they turned to leave. He held out the gun to Wesley, grip-first. "Dispose of this."

The moment Wesley took the gun, they'd be caught in the quagmire. Hartono wore gloves; Wesley did not. If they hadn't already been working for the government, taking hold of that gun would have sealed Wesley's fate as an accomplice. He did it without blinking, tucking it into the waistband of his trousers.

"I look forward to seeing you on Monday, Mr. Hartono," Wesley said, and then he and Trish departed, hand-in-hand.

* * *

She couldn't sleep. Lying there alone in the office, staring up at the ceiling, her heart was still racing, and tears stained her cheeks. Jen had never seen someone killed, before. She'd seen the aftermath a time or two; she'd worked Traffic before she was transferred to Fraud. But those deaths, as grim as some of them were, were all accidental, and she had only shown up after the fact. This was something else; there was such unpredictable cruelty in Muhammad Hartono. That man he'd killed, he'd never given him a chance to fight for his life, or explain himself. Hartono's behavior had not changed towards the man until the second he pulled the trigger. To do such a thing, to murder in cold blood and involve two innocent people in the process...it was unthinkable, to her. And now she lay alone, and defenseless, in a small bed in her neat little house. It would not be difficult to break down the door. It would not be difficult to find her here. If Hartono ever grew suspicious of the Claybournes he knew exactly where to find them. Would he kill them with such thoughtless disregard? Dump their bodies in the harbor, or burn them?

The silence stifled her like a pillow over her face, the darkness suffocating. She was alone, and far from home, and hunting a killer. What a fool she had been, to think she was ready for this task. Nothing in her life had ever prepared her for this.

 _I can't do it, I can't,_ she thought. She felt young, and naive, and out of her depth. She had known that SIS believed Hartono had killed before, but knowing and _seeing_ were two very different things. It was her job to bring Hartono down, and she wanted to, with every fiber of her being she wanted to, but she did not know _how,_ when they had no body, and the gun that Wesley had brought into their house held only his fingerprints. _This is just the beginning,_ she thought; they knew what Hartono was, but finding evidence against him would be difficult, for he seemed to account for every detail. She had thought, at the beginning, that the job would take no more than a month or two; she saw the foolish arrogance of that thought now. It would take much longer to find his vulnerabilities. How long? Three months? Six? A year? How long was she meant to stay here, in this place, sleeping across the hall from Wesley with nothing but her own churning doubts to keep her company?

The sound of a soft footstep in the corridor sent her heart rocketing into her throat, but the gentle knock on the office door could only have come from Wesley. It was very, very late and they both should have been sleeping, but for some reason he was still awake, and drawn to her as if he knew that she wouldn't be able to sleep, either, as if he could hear her thoughts clamoring through two closed doors. Strangely, she found she _wanted_ to see him; she wanted to be near him, to hear him tell her that everything was going to be all right.

Without a moment's hesitation she rolled out of bed; it was warm in the house, and she had taken to sleeping in just her knickers and a lightweight vest. Perhaps she should have taken the time to dress properly, but she and Wesley had been living together for months now, and she did not feel the need to hide from him. When she opened the door she found him similarly undressed; he wore a pair of sleeping pants and no shirt, his broad chest bare and his hair rumpled as if he, too, had been tossing and turning.

"I just wanted to see if you're all right," he said in a harsh whisper. There was agony in his eyes, as if what they'd witnessed in the dockyard haunted him, too, as if he could not bear the isolation any more than she could.

Jen wanted to tell him that she was all right. She wanted to say _don't worry about me,_ she wanted to say _we'll catch the bastard._ But no words fell from her lips; she was choking on sorrow, and she could not lie to him, not now. She only stood, looking up at him, and strangely he seemed to understand. Wesley nodded as if in silent agreement with her fears, and then he held out his hand to her.

They were meant to be partners, at home. Were meant to be professional, were meant to shed the legends they carried through the day and relax into themselves. They weren't married, here away from prying eyes; here they were hardly more than strangers. It was late, it was dark, they were both half-dressed, and SIS was watching, but when Wesley held out his hand to her Jen did not hesitate to take it, clinging to him desperately, as if his strength alone could save her.

"I've got you," he whispered. Always the same promise, the promise that he would protect her, support her; it was a lie, she knew, for he was no safer, no less frightened than she, but still, he thought of her first, and sought to reassure her. He was feeling less like a stranger to her by the second.

"I don't want to sleep alone," she told him before she thought better of it. Maybe having him beside her would distract her from her worries. Maybe she would feel less vulnerable, if they were in the same room. Maybe she could draw strength from the nearness of him. Maybe she just needed the comfort of it. Whatever it was, Wesley did not question it; still holding her hand, he turned and led her across the corridor to the master bedroom. They folded themselves into bed together, Wesley on the side closest to the door, Jen flat on her back beside him. As they settled into the mattress - which was far more comfortable than the daybed in the office - Jen sighed, once, and the tension seemed to exit her body along with her breath.

"Sleep, Trish," he said.

She didn't, not at first. She lay very still, listening to him breathing in the dark. She couldn't hear the gunshot, any more; all she heard now was _him._ She felt him relax beside her, felt his body go slack as sleep took him. Maybe this was all he needed, to set his mind at rest. Maybe he felt he could protect her better if she was near. Maybe he was right.

 _Sleep, Trish,_ she told herself, and eventually she closed her eyes, and drifted away, her cheek lying on a pillow that smelled familiarly, comfortingly of him.


	18. Chapter 18

_23 October 2004_

An elbow digging into Nick's ribs woke him abruptly the next morning. He rolled away, grunted _sorry_ once as he flopped onto his back and tried to get his bearings.

He was in the bedroom, still, his bedroom, and as the fog of sleep slowly lifted he realized three things; firstly, that Trish was still in bed with him, secondly that he had at some point in the night pressed himself against her back and flung his arm over her waist, and thirdly that while she had no doubt noticed the way his body reached for her she was neither chastising him nor running away. She had rolled away from him, that was what had woken him, he could see that now. And now they simply lay, together, flat on their backs, breathing deeply while dust motes danced in the feeble beams of sunlight slipping in behind the curtains.

It was Saturday, today. Nowhere to go, nowhere to be, nothing to do but laze about the house and ponder all that had happened the night before. Nick closed his eyes and scrubbed his hand over his face, seeing the shooting in the container playing over and over, projected on the backs of his eyelids like a film.

"I didn't think it would be like this," Trish said, very quietly.

They hadn't discussed it, the night before. Not in the car, as he drove them silently back to their home, not in the house once they stepped inside, not even when he'd gone to her room, shaken and frustrated and worried, not when she'd let him lead her back here and they'd folded themselves into bed together. They hadn't discussed it, but he knew that they ought to, and now seemed as good a time as any.

There were cameras in the bedroom, he knew, and mics, too. It could be that someone was watching them now, had seen them lie down to sleep together for the first time since they'd arrived in the house. It could be that someone was listening to them at this very moment; _let them,_ he thought. _They deserve to hear it._

"Neither did I," he confessed. What _had_ he expected? He wasn't sure how to articulate it, exactly, but he knew he had not expected _this,_ this creeping sense of vulnerability, this endless drag of day after day, this worry he felt, for her and for him. He had not expected to see a man murdered in front of his own eyes, that he knew for certain. Though Nick had cut his teeth as a green detective in Homicide he'd never seen anyone shot, let alone killed, so close to him before. He'd always come in after the fact, when everything was quiet and the violence had passed and the blood had congealed. Oh, he'd occasionally been on teams apprehending a suspect when shots were exchanged, but that was nothing like this. Nothing like standing there helpless, with nothing in his hand but Trish's, no gun, no backup, no end in sight and nowhere to run. Nothing like the total shock of it, the way Hartono had acted without warning or emotion, and left him reeling. He'd thought he was beyond shock, at this stage in his career; he'd been wrong.

"They made it sound easy," Trish said. "In training, they kept talking about the business. Meeting people, making connections. They made it sound like all we had to do was get him to agree to use our company, and that would be the end of it."

"Yeah," Nick answered. Yeah, SIS had spent weeks training him on the ins and outs of the shipping industry, and assured him he wouldn't need a gun. SIS had promised him he'd be watched every minute, that he'd be safe. SIS hadn't been in that container the night before, though; Hartono could have killed them easily, and SIS wouldn't have known a damn thing about it until the deed was done. They'd misled him, when it came to the plan to capture Hartono, Nick could see that now. He'd seen the ledgers and the paperwork, and he'd been a detective long enough to learn the rules of evidence. He and Trish had done exactly what SIS asked, and brought Hartono on board, but they didn't have a damn thing on him, and he knew this job wouldn't be over until they did. Whenever that might be.

"They said he was dangerous, but they said he wouldn't get his hands dirty. I thought...I thought if he ever decided to come for us he'd just send a few of his men to the house, and SIS could stop it. But now…"

Now everything had changed. SIS had assured them that Hartono did not personally seek out revenge, had promised that the man was too clever to do such things himself. SIS had also told Nick that his services would be required for a few months at most. SIS had lied.

"He won't come for us," Nick said with more confidence than he felt. If he could convince Trish, maybe he could convince himself. "He needs us now, and we've shown that he can trust us."

"So, what?" Trish asked, turning her head on the pillow, her bright eyes watching him closely. "We just...keep going? Wait for him to stuff up?"

Nick turned his head to face her, met her gaze steadily. "We don't have another choice," he said. "We're in this now."

There was nothing to do but keep moving, like a shark; if they stayed still, they'd die. One crate of guns that couldn't be traced back to Hartono wasn't enough, but maybe once they'd brought in a few more containers, worked their way deeper into his inner circle, maybe they'd find what they needed. But how?

 _The easiest thing would be to wear a wire,_ Nick thought, but his stomach lurched unpleasantly as the idea came to him. It would take a great deal of finesse to get Hartono to admit to anything, however much he might have respected them, and Hartono was clever. Surely he'd sense something was afoot, and if he caught Trish or Nick wearing a wire...well, he didn't fancy their chances of escaping Hartono's wrath unscathed. Their acquaintance was too new, their loyalty untested. It would take months, he knew, to make Hartono comfortable enough to share his mind with them. _Years, maybe,_ he thought.

"I have a job, Wesley. I haven't spoken to my mum in months. I mean, how long are we going to keep this up? Really? Abdul said two or three months. It's been almost three already, and we're nowhere near close to wrapping this up. What about Christmas? What about-"

He couldn't blame her for asking the questions. He was asking them himself, as desperate for answers as she was. SIS had helped arrange his leave from Homicide, but he knew that if he was gone much longer he'd lose his place on the team. They couldn't be a man down permanently; no doubt they'd already seconded someone to cover for him, and if he was gone a year or more he'd lose any claim to the post. Nick had nieces he'd quite like to see at Christmas, and his mum would wonder where he was; maybe he could arrange for Abdul to send her a message, let her know he wasn't dead, at least. _Christ,_ that was a bleak thought. The longer they remained in this place the harder it would be to explain his absence to the people he loved. There weren't very many of them - which might have been part of what made him attractive to SIS in the first place - but still, there were people out there who cared about him, people he cared about, and he would have to lie to him for the rest of his life. When he thought he'd only be gone a few months, that hadn't seemed like such a sacrifice. Now, though, staring down the barrel of an eternity, he found himself wondering if he'd made the right choice.

 _What if it takes longer than a year? What if it takes two? Three?_ And how much harder would it be, if this job dragged on for years, to let her go? How could he lose her, this woman who meant so much to him already, this woman whose very presence kept him centered, kept him focused?

He couldn't blame her for asking the questions, but he couldn't answer them, either, and he thought it might be best for both of them to put a stop to it before they spiraled too far into the _what ifs._

"If we're still here at Christmas," he said, cutting her off before she could ask anything else, "we'll have a tree. I'll buy you something nice."

She laughed, a bit wetly; there were tears in the corners of her eyes, and he found himself overcome by a sudden urge to reach out and brush them away. But he wore no shirt, and she wore nothing below the waist but her knickers, and they were still just getting used to one another, and they'd have to work together for god only knew how long; best keep his hands to himself, he knew.

"I don't mean to go to pieces," she said, and as he watched she scrubbed the tears away herself, and he felt a strange pang of disappointment at that. "I just feel like…"

"Like we've been lied to every step of the way and now we're working without a net?" Nick supplied.

She studied him as he spoke, a thoughtful sort of look in her eyes, as if she were only just seeing him for the first time.

"Yeah," she said. "Exactly like that."

"I'll be your net," he told her. "And you be mine."

He rather thought she was already; Trish was the one who kept up with the company's bills and their home finances, and she was the one who remembered all the details, whose intense focus and skills of observation had helped secure their arrangement with Hartono. Oh, he'd spoken to Nick, but it only worked because of Trish, Trish who'd quizzed him on operating procedure until he could recite it in his sleep, Trish who advised him on the best way to handle people, Trish who everyone adored, who bolstered their reputations and made them popular in the only social circle that mattered to them at present. If he'd been out there on his own, he'd never have made it this far, he was sure. He didn't just need a wife, someone to take his arm at fancy parties; he needed _her._

And he could be her net. He could do that for her, could catch her when she stumbled, could reassure her when she needed it, could give her somewhere to vent her frustrations, could give her a heart that understood. He would protect her, as best he could, and maybe, just maybe everything would be all right.

"Now," he said, feeling that the time had come to draw their confessions to a close. "You want some pancakes?"

"Banana pancakes?" she asked, grinning. Though Nick was hardly a cook there were a few things he could make quite well, and they'd cycled through all of their combined culinary knowledge over the last three months. His banana pancakes were her favorite, he knew that already.

"Whatever you want," he answered. She could ask him for the moon, and he'd give it to her, just to see her smile, just to know that he'd brought her some joy, when the life they'd found themselves in was so full of darkness. But as he spoke a strange silence seemed to settle over them; she was watching him, and he was watching her, and they were both hardly breathing and half-dressed, and lying in bed together. Would she sleep beside him again tonight? He wondered. Would she still need him, when thoughts of murder faded from her mind and her emotions were less raw? It wasn't a question of whether he wanted her there; he'd wanted her with him from the very first, and it had been...nice, to fall asleep beside her, to wake and talk to her so honestly before they began their day. He'd quite like to make a habit out of it. But perhaps now was not the time to be asking himself such questions, or to examine his desire to be near her too closely. To ease the tension that had begun to coil within his chest he rolled away, stood up and went rooting around in search of his shirt. He'd make her banana pancakes, and maybe they'd go to the shops later, and the rest of it could keep, at least a little while longer.


	19. Chapter 19

_11 January 2010_

_Long day, longer night,_ that's what Jen's mum used to say. As she finally kicked off her shoes and sank gratefully onto her little sofa at home, Jen found those words echoing through her mind. It had been a long day - a long week, a long month, a long year - and though all she wanted to do now was sleep she knew her mind would not allow her such peace, not for a good while yet. Not with Harvey Pullman dead, and Simon having resigned after being accused of his murder, not with thoughts of Nick desperately trying to find that little boy running through her head.

It had been strangely like the old days, covering for Nick while he went rogue on his own investigation. Excusing his absence, playing the part of the nonchalant partner, worrying for him in secret; there was something terribly familiar about it, and she'd slipped into old patterns without even realizing it. They weren't chasing gunrunners and thugs, anymore; they had backup now, a team, a group of people around them who told the _truth,_ and maybe Jen could have told the truth sooner, too. Maybe she should have trusted the boys to keep Nick's secret, but she hadn't. No one kept his secrets as well as she did.

In an effort to clear her mind she turned her thoughts towards dinner, but she had no sooner resolved herself to finishing off the half a limp salad still languishing in her refrigerator than there came a knock upon the door. Jen heaved herself to her feet, sighing; she knew before she opened the door what she'd find.

And she was right. It was Nick, leaning in the doorway, Nick with his jacket and tie long gone, Nick with his face drawn and haggard, Nick with a bag of Chinese takeaway in his hand.

"Hungry?" he asked by way of greeting, holding up the bag as if it were a peace offering, when they both knew it was just an excuse.

"I could eat," she answered, smiling.

The kitchen table was covered in bills and case files and dirty laundry, and instead of fussing about with cleaning it off they elected to eat together in the sitting room, the pair of them cross-legged on the floor with their food spread across her coffee table. For a few minutes they were quiet, opening containers of lo mein and rice and sesame chicken and twisting the tops off the two beers she'd pulled out of her fridge. Nick rummaged through the bag and found the chopsticks, passing one set off to her before taking the other for himself. He scooped out a piece of chicken like a pro; she'd taught him well, all those years before. Or maybe he'd just been a fast learner.

"I keep thinking," he said, still chewing his chicken, "about all those years Isobel spent sick to death worrying about Eddie." He swallowed. "All those years when Eddie should have been with his mum. All that time they should have had together. And now he's been ripped out of the only life he's ever really known, and he's got to start over. Christ, he's just a kid."

So that's what he wanted to talk about; not Simon's resignation, or what he had or hadn't done to Pullman, or whether any of them could have stopped him. Nick wanted to talk about the kid, the kid he'd searched so hard for all those years before, the kid he'd only just found, by sheer stroke of luck. That was his way, she knew; he couldn't control Simon, couldn't hold himself accountable for what Simon had done, or had done to him, but he could blame himself for the kid, and he was.

"You did everything you could for him," Jen told him softly. "Then, and now. Dorothy was smart back then, she covered her tracks well. You just had to wait for her to get sloppy, and the second she did you found Eddie."

Nick lifted his head, watching her; his eyes were full of hurt, but not on account of her, she knew. For all these years Nick had thought Dorothy was just a sweet old lady who'd made a mistake; he'd made excuses for her, protected her, and in the end it turned out that Dorothy was the one who'd stolen little Eddie away. It would take time for him to forgive himself for missing it, if he ever did.

"Yeah, but-"

"And Isobel cleaned herself up, didn't she? Who's to say she would have done that if Eddie hadn't been taken? He was safe, with Dorothy's son, and Isobel got her act together, and now they have a chance to be a proper family. Because of you."

Because Nick was a good man, because he never gave up. He could have stopped taking Dorothy's calls years before, could have refused to get involved when she came round to see him, could have foisted Isobel off on missing persons, but he hadn't. Once he took responsibility for something it was his, forever; Nick had never been the sort of man to walk away, and that was one of the things she'd always liked about him best.

"Thanks for covering for me," he said after a moment's pause, still watching her. This was familiar, too, sitting alone with him late in the evening, sharing a meal and a beer, talking about things they couldn't say to anyone else, toeing that line. It wasn't the first time he'd showed up at her door with dinner, and it wouldn't be the last. Maybe he needed it; there was a sense of normalcy, almost, that she felt when she was alone with him, that she never felt any other time, and she thought maybe he felt it, too. Like that was how it was supposed to be, the two of them, alone, and quiet. Maybe it was just the fact that they'd shared so much in the past, but somehow Jen didn't think so. It wasn't Wesley she wanted, with his ever-evolving charm and his terrible shirts; it was Nick, with his tired eyes, his soft voice, Nick sitting quietly across the coffee table from her, not complaining about having to sit on the floor instead of a chair, Nick who fought, every day of his life, just to help people.

"That's the deal, isn't it?" she answered. "I'll be your net, and you'll be mine."

_I'll catch you when you fall, and you'll catch me, too. But what happens when we both stumble at the same time?_

"Yeah," he answered, and then he prudently returned his attention to his chicken, and Jen took a long drink of her beer.

For another hour or so they picked at their dinner, neither of them particularly committed to the endeavor, neither of them saying much. That was something else she'd always liked about Nick; they could talk, if she wanted, or they could sit in silence, and either way she was comfortable. _He_ was comfortable, for her, never made demands of her or pushed her for more than she was willing to give. If she'd wanted to talk about Simon they could have faced it, but she didn't, and so they didn't. Simon's implosion was over, now; whatever he'd been struggling with, whatever he'd gotten himself mixed up in, it didn't matter, any more. He wasn't the Simon he had been, before, and the man he was now had chosen to walk away from them. They would mourn him, quietly, but life soldiered on. No time to stop and lament for what might have been, and no reason to, in any case; the thing was done. And she knew without need of conversation that Nick felt the same, that he'd already accepted it. Dunny would be grieving and Matty would be confused but Nick had watched the whole sorry play unfold, and he wouldn't waste his breath asking questions they'd never find the answers to.

"You ever think about quitting?" Jen asked him suddenly. She'd been thinking about Simon, and she'd been thinking about the closest she'd ever come to quitting herself, the first time she'd ever fired her gun and killed somebody. Close, but not close enough; the kid had been a menace, and he'd have killed her, or Simon, or his own bloody mum, if she hadn't gotten there first. She'd rationalized it, and gone right back to work, thrown herself back into the job that meant everything to her. But it was the same job that had left Simon a hollowed out shell of himself, and she was wondering, now, if the same fate lay in store for her. Who would she be without the job? She couldn't even imagine it. But then, Simon probably hadn't been able to imagine it before now, either.

"Sometimes," Nick answered, and the casual way he said it let her know he was telling the truth. The thought of it sent a chill lancing through her heart; after so long without him, after all these months of rediscovering how much more she liked to work with him beside her, the thought of going into work and not seeing his face was terrifying to her.

"What would you do, if you weren't doing this?"

"You'll laugh."

Jen smiled; just like that he'd made her curious, eased the tension between them; just like that, he'd made her feel better.

"I won't," she promised him. "Tell me."

"Construction," he said. She did laugh, but not because it was funny. It was just the last thing she'd expected him to say, somehow, and she couldn't even picture it, Nick with his uni degree and his years of training going off to swing a hammer all day.

"You said you wouldn't laugh!" he wore an expression of mock wounded pride; he was enjoying himself, she could tell.

"I did, I'm sorry. So. Construction."

"Yeah. I've always liked building things, making things. Bought a dump of a house just so I could fix it up myself. I can run electrical wiring and do a bit of plumbing, carpentry, that sort of thing. Sometimes I think it would be nice to just work all day, and come home at night knowing I'd made something useful."

And somehow, as incongruous as it had seemed at first, she realized she could see it. He'd always been fixing things up at the house, back when they were Trish and Wesley, had always liked working with his hands. He wanted to _make_ things, not unravel them. And their work, what they did, was as much about destruction as it was resolution. Most of the crimes they investigated left a trail of wounded hearts behind them, families shattered by the dark truths they'd uncovered. Just like today, like finding little Eddie; Nick had knit Isobel's family back together, by returning her son to her, but he'd destroyed a family, too. Would little Eddie miss the people he thought were his parents? They'd surely grieve the loss of their "son", and Dorothy would spend time in prison, separated from her own children, and poor Isobel who was so relieved to have her son back had been handed a fae child, a changeling nothing like the infant she recalled. Nothing was as clear cut as they wanted it to be.

"You are useful, Nick," she told him softly.

He smiled that lopsided smile of his. "So are you, you know," he answered, his voice as soft as her own had been.

For a moment they sat, smiling at each other, thinking the sorts of thoughts they both knew were not allowed, given their current circumstances. Nick broke first; she'd told him _no more_ , and he remembered her rules better than she did, sometimes. He made his excuses, rose to his feet, and she drifted along behind him as he made his way towards the door.

In her heart, Jen knew he didn't have to leave, and she knew he didn't want to, either. All it would take was one word from her; all she'd have to do was call his name, tell him _wait,_ or _please_ , and she knew he'd break, knew he'd gather her into his arms like he had done all those years before, knew he'd carry her back to her bed and give her everything she ever wanted. But only if she asked for it, only if she let him. And she wanted to let him; _Christ,_ she wanted him to hold her, and never let her go. But if she gave into that want now, everything else would be lost. After the debacle with Simon their team was under extra scrutiny, and they couldn't take the risk. Maybe Nick was ready to trade in his badge for a toolbelt, if that's what it took for them to be together, properly, but Jen wasn't ready to let him. She wanted him beside her at work, wanted to watch him do what he did best, wanted to know they were both right where they needed to be. The current state of affairs made _sense;_ any alternatives were cloaked in shadow, and she feared what lay in that darkness.

For a moment they lingered by the door; Jen wasn't quite ready to let him go and Nick wasn't quite ready to leave. She stepped up close to him, intent on opening the door for him, but as she did he hung his head, and her cheek brushed against his, and time seemed to stop. She could feel the warmth of his skin against hers, the shaky exhalation of his breath across her cheek. She could feel her heart crying out for him, and she could almost hear his answer. _Why shouldn't we?_ She asked herself. _Just once. After everything that's happened, Simon and the kid and all of it, why can't we take care of each other?_

 _Because it wouldn't be just once,_ a calmer voice seemed to answer her from the depths of her mind. _Not with him._

"Thanks, Jen," he whispered, and then he saved her from herself, opened the door on his own and stepped out into the night, and Jen just watched him go, feeling relieved and disappointed in almost equal measure.


	20. Chapter 20

_19 November 2004_

It was a bright warm afternoon at the end of spring, and Jen was lounging in one of the heavy wooden chairs they'd procured for their well-manicured back garden. As the days turned fine they spent more time outside, between parties and golf outings and covert assignations with Abdul. Hartono had kept the crates coming, and the Claybournes kept them running but nothing ever seemed to change; they knew no more about where the guns came from or where they were going now than they had known a month before. _Be patient,_ that's what Abdul told them. Jen felt she'd been more than patient already, but as she became more familiar with the constant sense of dread she found that, strangely, it became easier to bear.

Wesley helped. Calm, and patient, he bore their prolonged operation with good grace, and Jen found it hard to be surly, when he was so even tempered. Now that the weather had turned warm he seemed to want to be outside every minute, and their steady diet of takeaways had quite suddenly been replaced by a constant supply of homecooked meats, made with expert care by Wesley, who seemed to like nothing better in the world than standing by a grill with a beer in his hand. Jen wasn't complaining; she was coming to find that he was quite handy to have around.

And if it was warm, and he was outside, she supposed there was no reason for her to remain indoors, so she had fetched a beer for herself and come to join him, curled her legs up under her and propped a book against her thighs so that she could read with the sunshine warm upon her shoulders. Not that she was doing much reading; the book was just an excuse, really, for the more she drank the more her eyes wandered to him. His easy smile, his strong arms; there was something so undeniably pleasant about Wesley, and the very domestic picture he presented, in his _kiss the cook_ apron and his bare feet.

They slept together every night, now. Well, _he_ slept; Jen mostly tossed and turned. In the darkness worries nipped at her, but she'd rather lie awake with Wesley beside her than suffer alone in the office. He was warm, and solid, and reassuring somehow, and she always drifted off in the end, and always woke with his arm draped heavily around her waist, his breath soft and shallow against the back of her neck. _I've got you,_ that's what he liked to say when she was anxious, his way of reminding her that he was there for her, always, and the way he held her when she slept echoed the sincerity of his words. She was certain that if she tried to sleep without him she'd never manage it; she needed him, now.

"All right?" he called, marching away from the grill for a moment. He came to a stop in front of her and then reached for the hem of his t-shirt, lifting it up to mop the sweat from his brow and revealing the heavy muscle of his chest and stomach to her in the process. Jen's heart gave a funny little flip at the sight.

"Yeah, good," she answered, trying to keep her eyes fixed on his face. They jogged together every morning and slept together every night and so she knew very well just how fit he was, but seeing it, his bare skin, the thin trail of dark hair that ran from his navel down beneath the waistband of his track pants, left her somehow breathless. She knew he was strong, knew the weight of his arm around her, knew the warmth of his smile; what other secrets did he keep, buried beneath his casual clothes? What other secrets would she learn, before this job was through?

"You need a hat," he grumbled good-naturedly. "Your nose is burning."

And then before Jen could even begin to process what was happening he leaned over and brushed the pad of his thumb against the tip of her nose. His skin was cool and damp with condensation from the beer bottle, and her skin, inflamed from the sun, tingled where he touched her. Maybe he was right; maybe she was getting a little sunburned, sitting without any shade like this, but she liked the warmth, and she liked being near him too much to retreat inside.

"I don't have a hat," she told him.

He smiled at her then, like he'd just thought of something grand, but he did not speak again, just wandered back towards the grill to check on the steaks, leaving Jen to her valiant, if doomed, attempt to avoid looking at his arse as he went.

* * *

_20 November 2004_

A clatter outside their bedroom window woke her; the curtains on the windows were heavy and let in little light, and so she lay for a moment, disoriented and out of sorts, trying to work out where she was and what was happening. She blinked the sleep from her eyes blearily and the numbers on the clock beside the bed slowly resolved themselves; it had just gone 9:00. They never slept so late, but as Jen found her bearings she realized Wesley wasn't beside her. That made her heart drop; he was always there, every morning, beside her, holding her. Where had he gone? Why hadn't he woken her first? What could he possibly need to do that wouldn't require her presence? And what -

Another crash echoed from outside, the distinctive crack of wood-on-wood, like a pile of 2x4's being off loaded from a van. Whatever it was, it was coming from the garden. Jen rolled out of bed, her legs still a bit wobbly, her mind still half asleep, and shuffled over toward the window. Running her fingers through the tangle of her blonde hair with one hand she reached for the curtains with the other, and drew them back just far enough to peer out into the garden, and then she laughed aloud.

He was there, her Wesley, with a tool belt wrapped low around his hips, carrying several long pieces of lumber slung over his shoulder, his movements easy and not fumbling despite his unwieldy load. He tossed it down, and Jen's eyes followed his progress, seeing that he'd already laid quite a pile for himself there in the grass. But what on earth for? She wondered. What was he up to, early on a Saturday morning, and where had all this come from, and how had he gotten it to their little house?

As fast as she could she bolted for the loo, used it quickly before taking a moment to wash her face and pull her hair back. She'd slept in a thin vest and a pair of shorts as was her habit, but the sun was up and if the sweat-stains she'd seen on Wesley's shirt were any indication it was warm enough already, and so she didn't bother with a robe. She raced out of the bathroom and towards the back door, slipped on the sandals she kept there and then marched out to meet him.

As she came out he was coming in, carrying another load through the gate in the fence that ran around the perimeter of their back garden.

"Morning!" he called cheerfully, as if there was nothing at all strange about this, the pile of wood and hardware lying by her chair, the ute she caught a glimpse of on the other side of the gate, the sweat glistening at his temples.

"Morning," she answered, watching as he marched right up to the pile, and dropped the lumber from his shoulders there. He didn't even seem winded, but if the pile he'd built up was anything to go by he'd made quite a few trips already, and as Jen watched he reached for the hem of his shirt. She thought he meant to do what he'd done the night before, just wipe his face clean, but he surprised her by stripping out of it entirely and tossing it onto one of the vacant chairs.

 _It's too early for this,_ Jen thought faintly. She had known, from the very first, that he was a handsome man, handsome in a non-threatening, fairly boring sort of way, but _this..._ every muscle in his body was hard and well defined, the veins in his arms standing out from the strain of his work, little swirls of dark hair surrounding his nipples to match the rest lower down on his belly, his skin tanned and soft and _oh,_ it was almost too much, really. It wasn't fair, that he should be so good, so kind to her, so understanding, so willing to help her, and so bloody attractive to boot.

"What's all this, then?" she asked him, gesturing towards the pile of wood at her feet.

"I had a thought, last night," he said. "We could do with some shade out here, with summer coming on. So I got up early and I looked up some plans on the internet. Tell me what you think about this."

And then he reached into the back pocket of his blue jeans, and withdrew several sheets of paper folded together, a little damp from his excursions. He took one of them and smoothed it across the back of a nearby chair, and then handed it to her.

It was a diagram of a pergola, four tall columns and a series of slats across the top to form a roof, that looked like it had been printed off their computer in the office. Jen could almost imagine it coming to be, there in the back garden, the chairs underneath it, fairy lights strung across the beams or maybe canvas to provide more shade, and as she looked at it she couldn't help but think that it was both absolutely perfect and completely impossible. He'd need to pour concrete to make a foundation for the columns, and she had absolutely no idea how he planned to hoist the thing up to make the roof, and really, what was he _thinking?_ It wasn't their house, not truly, and if everything went well they wouldn't be there much longer, and she couldn't see any sense in his undertaking the project. She didn't want to disappoint him, after he'd gone to all this trouble, but she couldn't help but think it was foolish to even attempt such a thing.

"Isn't this...well...a bit much?" she asked, staring around at the pile of materials he'd gathered and trying not to look at his bare chest, enticing though it might have been.

"Nah," he answered easily. "I've done it before. I rented a ute and I took the specs with me to the hardware store. I've got everything I need."

Jen stared at him, trying not to be impressed. He'd done it before. _Who is this man?_ She wondered. _Who is he when he's at home, and not with me?_ The sort of man who built things, who liked to grill and watch the footie, he was also the sort of man who listened, observed, and acted, and she liked that about him, very much. He'd studied the plans, and purchased all the materials, seemed completely confident in his abilities, and his confidence was rubbing off on her. The pergola _would_ be very nice, and it was sweet of him, to do this thing, to make their home more comfortable, even when he didn't need to.

"Once it's up, it'll be nice out here," he said, as if it wasn't nice already. "And you can sit out here with me, and not get burned."

She hadn't asked him for shade, hadn't complained about it - though her nose was still red from Friday afternoon - but he had seen a need, and chosen to respond to it at once. He had chosen to do this thing to make her more comfortable, so that she could continue to sit outside, with him. Maybe, she thought, he wanted her with him. Maybe he enjoyed their conversations as much as she did, maybe he took comfort from their proximity as much as she did, and wanted it to continue. Maybe she liked that thought, too, the thought that they could spend every afternoon and evening out here, together, in the shade of this thing he had built just for her.

"You need some help?" she asked warily. Jen had never done anything like this in all her life, but she worried about him trying to tackle a job this big by himself. And if he got hurt doing something stupid and unnecessary like this, Abdul would never let them hear the end of it, and she'd never forgive herself for not intervening.

Wesley laughed.

"I'm always grateful for a second pair of hands," he said. "If you're up for it."

As if she could say no, after a challenge like that.

"Course I am," she answered with a toss of her head.

"Right," he said. "First things first. You'll need different shoes."


	21. Chapter 21

_2 March 2010_

"Detective Buchanan!"

Nick turned on his heel, stopped in his tracks by the cheerful sound of Senior Sergeant Leigh calling out to him. Claudia made people nervous, he knew; there was something unsettling about a shrink with a rank. Most detectives spent their whole careers trying to steer clear of her, terrified that if they gave her the chance she'd look into their hearts and find some sort of psychosis lurking there, and strip them of their jobs before they could blink. Nick wasn't one of those; he'd always had an even-tempered sort of disposition, and Claudia had provided invaluable insight on several of his cases. Including the current one; they were on the trail of a serial rapist turned murderer, and their prime suspect was poised to leave the country in the next thirty-six hours. Time was running out, and Claudia's read on the suspect's personality might be just the tool they needed to catch him out.

"All right, Senior Sergeant?" he asked as she rushed to catch up with him. He supposed she'd probably want to talk strategy; the plan, at present, was for Nick and Claudia to interview their suspect together, to let him watch Claudia bust Nick's balls and see if he rose to the bait, see if he was bothered by the sight of a woman in a position of authority over a man. Being her patsy didn't bother Nick so much; he wanted to bring the prick down, and if he had to appear to let Claudia walk over him to get it done, that was no skin off his nose. Some coppers he'd worked with in the past probably would have found the role demeaning, but Nick had never gone in for all that machismo bullshit. Maybe that was why she'd asked for him.

"All right, thanks," she answered brightly. Nick had never met a shrink as relentlessly optimistic as Claudia Leigh, and he rather liked that about her.

"Want to talk battle strategy?" he asked, but she just grinned, and shook her head.

"I think we're both prepared for what's coming," she said. "I just wanted to chat, if you have a minute."

Nick frowned; he wasn't uneasy yet, not exactly, but the fact that she had sought him out for a private chat was concerning. As far as he was aware he'd done nothing to put himself on her radar. He was happy, generally speaking, enjoyed his job and his friends and his little house and his bi-weekly footie match, not like Simon, who'd been so miserable by the end that he'd infected everyone else around him with his shitty attitude. Life wasn't perfect for Nick, of course it wasn't, but as far as he was concerned he had it better than most, and he liked to think he kept his emotions out of his work.

"Sure," he answered. When Claudia Leigh asked for a chat, the answer always had to be _yes; no_ could have drastic consequences.

"How long have you been back on Homicide?"

Maybe she was just checking up on him, making sure he was settling in okay; it was the sort of thing she'd do, he thought.

"Coming up on eight months," he said. That was as near as he could reckon it; he'd covered for Jen during her secondment, and she'd been back maybe half a year.

"And you're finding your feet? Good to be working with your old mates again?"

It was an unwelcome reminder that Claudia had access to their personnel files, and could review them at will. That was the only way she could have known, he thought, that he'd worked with Simon and Duncan and Matt in the past. It was the sort of thing she'd do, he thought, if she was going to be working closely with a certain squad on a certain case, familiarize herself with the players involved. But what had prompted this little fishing expedition? Did she really just want to know if he was content in his job, or was she after something else?

"Yeah," he said. "The team is solid, and I like the work. It's good to be back."

"And you're getting on all right with the newer members of the squad?"

"Yeah, yeah, all right," he said. "Kingston's green but she's learning fast. She's got a good head on her shoulders." _And a bad temper, and a mouth she can't keep shut, but she'll get there._ Nick wasn't about to share that insight with Claudia; rule number one was _you don't dog on your teammates._ Well, actually he supposed that was rule number two. Rule number one, really, was _you don't screw the crew._

"And Detective Mapplethorpe?"

There was a glint in Claudia's eyes Nick liked not one bit, and his stomach churned uncomfortably. He had forgotten, somehow, that he'd spent less time working with Jen than he had with Allie, that Jen was supposed to be _new_ , to him, and not another old mate. But why would Claudia ask about her? If Nick was steady, Jen was steadier; she worked hard, she kept her mouth shut, she played ball with the brass and she never lost her cool with her teammates. Why would Claudia single her out? For a moment he wracked his brain, trying to recall whether Claudia might have seen something pass between them, something she shouldn't have, but they had spent the last few months trying their hardest to conceal the history that bound them together. No one suspected anything untoward, as far as he was aware; he was certain that he and Jen hadn't given them any reason to. Had they?

"Yeah, Mapplethorpe's a good copper. She's an asset to the team."

"I noticed you two seem to...click."

She was very smooth, he had to give her credit for that. There was no trace of accusation in her tone, but there was a question beneath the words, just the same.

"We've been partnered together on a few cases, and it's gone well." That was all he'd give her; let her draw what conclusions she would from it.

"Right," Claudia said. "You're a straight shooter, Nick, I know that. You don't like to beat around the bush. So I'll just ask. Are you sleeping with her?"

"Excuse me?"

Nick almost laughed in her face, not because it was funny - although it was just a little funny, he thought, that Claudia could draw such a conclusion when the people who worked with them every day didn't suspect a thing - but because he was so bloody shocked at the suggestion. He wasn't sleeping with Jen, of course, but he had, once - more than once - and wouldn't turn her down if she were willing, still longed for her, no matter how he tried to ignore the ache. The question was, how the bloody hell had Claudia figured that out?

"I just noticed you two seem...close. You finish each other's sentences, and then there was that thing with the tea-"

"What thing with the tea?" He was genuinely baffled; he didn't have any idea what she was talking about. And though their conversation had drifted into rather tense territory, Claudia smiled.

"You didn't even notice you did it," she said, not unkindly. "But when we were talking, before, you two were sharing a cup of tea. I watched you take it from her, and she took it right back. That's not exactly...it implies a certain degree of familiarity and comfort with one another I wouldn't expect from two people who've only been working together for about six months."

Now he remembered; he'd been parched, and Jen's tea was just there, and she'd never had any qualms about letting him have a sip or two of hers in the past. They'd shared so much; a cup of tea didn't seem so monumental, compared to everything else. But Claudia had seen - what if Matt had, too? What if Matt said something, to Jen, or to Wolfie? Would the delicate balance he and Jen fought so hard to maintain be completely upended over one single bloody cup of tea?

"It's just tea," he said with a shrug, hoping he looked nonchalant, when he wasn't feeling anything of the sort. "I thought it was mine. That's all."

"Right," Claudia said, a look in her eyes like she didn't believe him for a second. "I know you don't need reminding but I have to say it. Workplace romances are always a bad idea, Detective Buchanan."

"I'll remember that the next time I find myself being romanced in the workplace," he said dryly. Maybe his little quip worked; she laughed, and he relaxed, ever so slightly. After all, he wasn't actually sleeping with Jen, wasn't actually sneaking around, wasn't actually doing anything he wasn't meant to. He may have wanted it, but he hadn't acted on the impulse; Jen wouldn't let him. There was nothing to feel guilty about, really, but he still felt it, somehow, felt like he'd been caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. _If only,_ he thought glumly.

"Right, well, catch up with you later, then," she said, and then she was walking away, and Nick was left staring after her, still reeling from the conversation and all that it implied.

* * *

_3 March 2010_

They came through the door together, Nick and Matt and Duncan, with a squad of uniforms hot on their heels. It had been a nightmare of a day; with each passing second the impending departure of their prime suspect had drawn closer and closer, and nothing they did seemed to make any difference. Jen had gone round to Claudia's to pick her brain about something - Nick couldn't even remember what, any more - and he'd let her go alone, never imagining, not even for a moment, that she might be in danger. But of course she was; she'd rung him, not long after she left, her voice shaking, to tell him that Daniel Worthington had attacked Claudia, that Jen had discovered him in the act, that Claudia had killed him. He had never been so scared in all his life as he was in that moment, listening to her voice, small and sad and frightened on the other end of the phone, knowing the horror she'd endured, kicking himself for letting her go alone, for not recognizing the danger, not being there to protect her. He was her _partner_ ; the day they first met he'd made a vow that he would always, always look after her, and when she needed him most he'd been on the other side of town, oblivious.

Matt was wrangling the uniforms, directing them to spread out and secure the house while they waited for the crime scene guys to turn up. For his part Nick ignored Matt completely; Claudia and Jen were sitting together on the sofa, their arms around one another, and that was where he went at once, his heart in his throat. They were both banged up, the pair of them bruised and bloody. Claudia was wrapped in a thin blue robe, no trace of her usual bright smile on her face, and it tugged at Nick's heartstrings to see the usually bubbly Senior Sergeant looking so devastated. Duncan approached her warily, and Nick let him; she'd been through a terrible ordeal, and she would need the comfort of a familiar face. After being shot, and bashed, and god only knew what else, Duncan had spent his fair share of time in her office. Maybe he could be a comfort to her now, as she had once been to him.

It was Jen who drew Nick's attention, Jen with that blank look on her face, her hands clutched together in her lap as if to stop them shaking. Nick went to her at once, knelt down in front of her; he wished like anything he could reach for her hand, in that moment, but there were too many eyes in the room, and he didn't trust himself. One touch, and he knew he'd pull her into his arms, kiss her hair, beg for her forgiveness, promise never to leave her. One touch and every boundary they'd thrown up between themselves would vanish. One touch, and he'd never let her out of his sight again.

"All right?" he asked softly, warily. At the sound of his voice Jen's eyes seemed to come back into focus; she gazed down at him, horror written on every line of her face.

"He got the jump on me," she said, her voice no more than a harsh whisper. "He almost-"

"But he didn't," Nick reminded her quickly. The _almosts,_ the _could have beens,_ that was dangerous territory. If Jen let her mind go there, she might not ever make her way back, might end up like Simon, angry and scared and unable to carry on. Nick couldn't let that happen; he couldn't lose her. Not now, not like this.

Her eyes searched his face, beseeching, and a lump formed in the back of his throat, choking on the words he couldn't say.

"He," Jen started to say; she lost her breath, and then tried again. "He...he...he was…"

The words wouldn't come. Nick could see the battle raging inside Jen's heart, how she wanted to keep herself together, to deliver her statement calmly and coolly, but she'd stumbled into the most terrible scene, a known killer about to rape and murder a woman Jen considered a friend, and that man had hit her, hurt her, knocked the gun from her hands. It was Claudia who'd killed him, in the end; Jen had managed to get one of Claudia's hands free before she was attacked, and if hadn't been for that, Worthington might have killed them both.

 _Christ,_ Nick had just done what he'd been trying to stop Jen from doing; Nick had just let himself imagine, if only for a second, what might have happened if things had shaken out differently. Let himself imagine, just for an instant, what it would be like to walk into this house, and find Jen and Claudia both dead. The thought wound itself around his heart and squeezed like a snake, sucking the breath from his lungs. Jen, and dead, before he ever got the chance to tell her how much she meant to him, before he ever got the chance to hold her again; there was no scenario he could imagine more horrific than that one, nothing else that could break him, save for the loss of her.

"You can give your statement at the station, okay?" he told her in an unsteady voice. "We don't have to talk about it now."

He wasn't sure he could stand to listen to it, just now. Beside him Duncan was saying much the same thing to Claudia, but Nick couldn't hear him, couldn't see him, barely even remembered that he was there. The only person who existed in Nick's world just then was Jen, scared and bloody and needing him.

"Will you take me there?" Jen asked softly. "I brought my car but…"

But she was in no fit state to drive, and they both knew it. Jen had already explained the situation over the phone, and Worthington was dead; there was no sense in her remaining at the crime scene. The techs would come and perform all their tests and take all their notes; all they needed from Jen was her official statement and a gunpowder residue test for her hands. They could do both those things here, or they could do them at the station, and it seemed plain to Nick which Jen would prefer. She'd want to be at work, under the bright lights, surrounded by coppers and friends, would want to keep herself busy and focused and find strength from familiar surroundings, instead of the terror of this place. He could hardly blame her.

"Yeah," he said, "yeah, I'll take you. Come on. We'll go talk to Wolfie."

That roused her; Jen rose to her feet, and so did he, and he only just managed to refrain from wrapping his arms around her. As quickly as he could Nick filled Duncan in on his plan - take Jen to work, get her hands tested, take her statement, take her home - and Duncan agreed to do the same for Claudia. With that sorted, then, Nick and Jen made their way out past the uniforms and the crime scene tape, down the pavement and into her car. Everyone else was inside the house; the street was packed with police cruisers, but they were all empty, with no left to watch as Nick and Jen prepared to leave.

Carefully Nick helped Jen settle in to the passenger's seat, and then slid behind the wheel. He froze there, for a moment; she hadn't handed him her keys, yet, and there was nothing to do but hold onto the wheel in silence, smothered in the darkness, fear biting at him still, even now that he knew for a fact she was safe, and whole.

"Are you all right, Jen? Really?" he asked. It was a stupid question, he knew it was, but he had to ask, had to ask something, had to hear her voice, had to remind himself that she was still there, alive, and with him.

A single choking sob escaped her, and Nick lost what little remained of his self-restraint. He reached for her then, with both hands, and she came with him at once, slid right out of her seat and into his lap. It was a tight fit, but it wasn't the first time he'd held her like this in a car in the dead of night. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if it would be the last.

She was so small; _Christ,_ sometimes he forgot that about her. Jen was so bright, so bold, it always seemed to him as if surely she must be taller than she was, larger than life. In the moment, though, he knew the truth; she fit easily within the circle of his arms, her knees tucked out of the way, her face buried in his neck. With one hand he caught her head, held her against him and tangled his hands in his hair, dropped his chin and breathed her in while she cried, and his heart shredded itself to pieces in his chest, grieving for the pain she'd been put through, screaming at the thought of how close he'd come to losing her.

"It's all right," he whispered. "It's all right, sweetheart. I've got you."

Jen didn't answer, but then he hadn't expected her to. He just held her close, and let her cry.


	22. Chapter 22

_3 March 2010_

Nick drove her home, after. After the gunshot residue test, after sitting across the table from Wolfie with a paper cup of lukewarm coffee clutched in her hands, relaying the events of the night in excruciating detail. After making sure that Claudia had somewhere safe to go, after attempting to start typing her report and being roundly admonished by every single one of the boys, insisting that she needed to go home, to rest, to breathe before she even attempted such a thing. After the phone call from Waverly telling her she'd be on mandatory leave for the rest of the week. After all of it, Nick was still holding her car keys in his pocket, and he picked up her bag, too, shooing her out the door without saying a word. If she hadn't been so bone-tired, if her nerves hadn't been so frayed, she might have objected to his taking charge of her like that. As it was, she was too grateful to be grumpy.

It was Nick she wanted driving her home, anyway. Nick who drove in silence, not chatting like Matt would have done, or asking questions like Allie would have done. Duncan probably would have allowed her to sit and stare out the window, probably wouldn't have pushed her to speak, probably would have known it wasn't what she needed, but Duncan wasn't the one she wanted with her, in that moment. Duncan was a mate, as dear to her as a brother, but he wasn't _Nick._

After only six months, Nick had become as important to her now as he had ever been when he was Wesley; more so, perhaps, because now when they talked no one else was listening. Now they could be wholly, completely themselves, open and honest with one another, and she had found him to be everything Wesley had ever been, and more besides. He was steady, and he made her laugh, sometimes, and she could trust him with her life and her secrets. Something about them together just _worked;_ they saw the world the same way, she knew that now. They both loved their jobs, both believed strongly in justice, both put others before themselves, both tried not to get swept up in the bullshit. They both liked their team, and a bit of quiet, both enjoyed untangling the puzzles of their investigations too much to worry about climbing the ladder. They were both right where they wanted to be.

It was easier to think about Nick than to think about what had happened at Claudia's house. It was easier to think about Nick than to think about the way her lip stung from where she'd been struck, the bruises all over her body that would be black and purple come the morning. It was easier to think about Nick, Nick who had, somehow, become her best mate. It was Nick she wanted to talk to, not just about Worthington and Claudia and what might happen next, but about... _everything._ Matt had never asked her if she wanted to have kids of her own. It wasn't Duncan she complained to when she worried that his investigation into the chop-chop ring was going to get him killed. Allie didn't tease her about drinking too much caffeine in the afternoon. Nick did, though, and she couldn't help but wonder as they drove along how she'd ever got by without him. Without someone she could trust above all others, without the one person she wanted most when everything went pear shaped. Would tonight have gone any differently, if Nick had never walked back into her life? She supposed it probably wouldn't have; Nick had showed up with the cavalry, after the fact. It was Claudia who'd saved both their skins, not Nick. But Nick had been there, after, to pick up the pieces, and the thought of what might happen to her if she'd been forced to go home without him by her side was a terrifying one.

The drive from the station to her house was a relatively short one; she didn't live far. Location had been one of her primary requirement when looking for a house, seeing as she often worked late into the night, often worked interminably long days. A long commute, after a day like this one, would have been unbearable. But as Nick pulled her car onto the drive and put it in park she found herself wishing, somehow, that they could keep going. It didn't matter where they ended up, how long it took; she just wanted, more than anything else, to stay in that car with him.

"Want me to go in with you?" he asked her softly. They were the first words he'd spoken since they got into the car, and the sound of his voice shook her from her thoughts about him, and them, and how everything had changed the moment she first saw his face.

Why was he asking? She wondered now. Did he feel, as she did, that he would do anything just to put off the moment of their inevitable separation? Was he worried that she'd go to pieces the moment she was alone? _Would_ she go to pieces? Should she be more scared than she was?

That man, Worthington, had raped his victims in their homes. The one they'd found dead, the one that started this whole mess, he'd caught her as she was getting out of her car. And Claudia, he'd attacked her at home, too, turned her safe haven into a hellhole. That was what he did, turned powerful women into victims, stole their security away. _And Claudia could have been one of them. So could I._

The realization crashed into her chest with all the force of a freight train. There hadn't been a moment to sit and acknowledge the fear, before now; first there had been only adrenaline and a desperate need to fight, and then she'd been focused on Claudia, and then she'd been distracted by the routine of work, the lights and the noise of the station. Now, though, now it was dark, and quiet, and she was staring up at her little house, that little house she loved so much, her favorite place in all the world, thinking how it much more foreboding it felt now than the last time she'd seen it. Nick could walk inside with her, and show her that the house was empty, that it was secure. Nick could check the locks on the doors and the windows, and show her that it was safe. But then Nick would _leave_ , and she would be alone in the dark, in the quiet, thinking about how really it wouldn't take that much force, to break a window. Thinking about the number of locks she'd seen broken over the course of her work. Thinking about the terrified look in Claudia's eyes when Jen found her tied to the bed. Nick would leave, and she would be alone, and she knew the fear would come for her, then.

It was just nerves. In the morning she might laugh at herself for her momentary weakness. After a week she wouldn't think twice about laying down to sleep alone. After a month all that fear would be nothing but a bad memory. But that night, in that moment, the fear was real, and coming for her.

Jen took a shuddering breath.

"Yes, please," she said. Maybe it was foolish, to accept his offer of help. Maybe she should have been more self-reliant, shouldn't have let him think she was vulnerable. But he had offered, and she did not have it in her to turn him down, not when she still yearned for the comfort of his presence, just for a few minutes more.

"Wait right there," he said, and then he slipped out of the car, walked round and opened the door for her. He looked rattled, too, she thought. Maybe as they drove he'd been thinking how close she'd come to calamity, how Worthington had knocked her gun away, wrapped his powerful hands around her slender neck. Maybe he was just as scared as she was.

Nick held his hand out to her, and Jen took it, laced their fingers together and clung to him as they walked up the pavement together. Nick still held her keys and so he unlocked the door for her, held it wide while she stepped inside.

Maybe he meant to search the house to soothe his own heart as much as hers. Maybe she should have let him. But as they stood together in her foyer, as Nick locked the door behind them and dropped her keys into the bowl on the sidetable exactly as he would have done when they lived together four years earlier, she found she didn't want him to do anything of the sort. Worthington was dead; the threat was gone. No one was lurking in her house, or in the bushes outside, waiting to come for her. The only danger now lay within her own heart, her own fears about the cost of the work she'd chosen, the sickening knowledge of the terrible desires that turned some men into killers. Worthington had appeared to his family and friends as a perfectly normal, upstanding gentleman; none of them had ever suspected a thing. Any man she passed at the supermarket, at the coffee shop, the petrol station, could have been a monster, too. But Nick wasn't, and Nick was here.

"Stay with me," she said before she could think better of it. The first time she'd ever laid down beside him she had done it because they were both scared, facing a future that looked darker in the night than it had the previous morning. And that first time, and every time after, she had fallen asleep listening to the sound of his deep, even breathing, comforted by the knowledge that he was near, and watching over her, even as he dreamed. She felt _safe_ , with Nick, and she wanted to feel that way again, even if it was only for one night.

For a moment he watched her, trying to read her intentions in her face. It was Jen who'd told him _not again,_ Jen who'd decided that he could not return to her bed, even in sleep, but now she was asking for him. Did he understand? Did he know what she needed? Did he need the same?

"Yeah," he said, giving her hand a little squeeze. "Yeah."

Relieved, then, she turned and led him to her bedroom. They moved in a familiar dance between the bedroom and the bathroom. Jen changed into her favorite soft pajamas, brushed her teeth and washed her face and used the loo, and then she curled up beneath the duvet, listening to the sounds of Nick attending to his own business, comforted by his presence. When the door opened she saw that he had stripped down to his vest and his trunks, and he carried his clothes folded in a pile in his arms. He set them down on her dresser, and then slid into bed beside her, his arms wrapping around her at once. The familiar warmth of him, holding her, sent all of her grief and all of her fear washing out of her on the sound of a gentle sigh. He was steady and solid at her back, his arm heavy around her waist, the wash of his breath soft against the back of her neck. The darkness didn't frighten her when he held her. When he held her, the darkness felt like a gift, one more chance to lay sheltered and safe, with him.

"I can't lose you, Jen," Nick whispered. He spoke as softly then as he had ever done when they were Trish and Wesley, as if he were somehow still afraid that someone might overhear.

"I'm right here, sweetheart," she reminded him, reminded herself. She was, still, alive, and here, in her bed, warm and surrounded by him. It was enough for now. It had to be enough.


	23. Chapter 23

_4 December 2004_

"Oh, Trish, it just looks wonderful!" Marcy crowed, clapping her hands together delightedly as she took in the sight of the garden. Jen grinned, appreciative of Marcy's kind words, even if the high-pitched squeal in which they'd been delivered was somewhat grating.

"Oh, I'm so glad you like it," Jen gushed. "We wanted to have everything perfect, for our first Christmas in Sydney."

And it was, actually, rather perfect. Over the course of two weekends Jen and her Wesley had finished constructing the pergola, and earlier in the day they had set about decorating the entire garden for this little soiree. Jen had clambered up a ladder while Wesley held it steady beneath her, and carefully strung fairy lights through the beams that formed the pergola's roof. More lights had been hung along the high wooden fence that ran the perimeter of the garden, and cheerful torches had been set in the grass at regular intervals in the hopes that the smoke might help to keep the bugs away. They'd hired a catering company to organize food and tables and chairs and a few cheerful white umbrellas, and SIS operatives, disguised as waiters, had placed small wireless microphones everywhere they could think of, and were even now drifting through the party in the hopes of recording every word that was spoken that night, and perhaps learning something of use.

The garden looked beautiful, and the weather was fine, and the food was expensive and delicious, and Jen held a flute of good champagne in her left hand. This party was smaller than the first one they'd attended at Frank and Marcy's house; no more than thirty people, including Trish and Wesley, and, of course, Muhammad Hartono. That was the point of the whole endeavor, after all; it provided an opportunity to record Hartono under relatively safe conditions. If Jen or Wesley had worn a wire to a private meeting he might have grown suspicious, and he would have been able to dispatch them handily. Here they were surrounded by their own people, watched from every angle, and more than a few of the waiters nearby had guns tucked beneath their neat black jackets. For once, Jen wasn't eaten alive with nerves. She and Wesley were protected here, in their own home, and the crowd was small, and all she had to do was talk.

"Do you have the number for the man who built that for you?" Marcy asked, gesturing vaguely towards the pergola. "I'd love to have one put up at the house but it's so hard to find a good contractor these days."

"Actually," Jen answered, grinning, "Wesley built it."

This earned her a twitter of surprise from Marcy.

"You're joking! My, he is handy to have around, isn't he?" Marcy exclaimed, nudging Jen with her shoulder and giving her a knowing look.

Reflexively Jen's eyes sought Wesley out across the party; he was standing near one of the tables, chatting with Frank and Hartono. He wore a hunter green Oxford, unbuttoned at the neck, and a pair of grey trousers, casual and confident and happy in his own back garden. The color suited him, and Jen had told him so, and he'd grinned when she'd said it, happy with even that faint praise from her.

"Oh, you two are just the sweetest," Marcy sighed, and Jen snapped her gaze back to her companion at once. "I just think it's lovely how he spoils you. I can hardly get Frank to look at me most days."

"Marce-"

"Please don't feel sorry for me," Marcy interrupted her wryly. "I couldn't bear it. I knew what I was getting myself into. Frank wanted someone who wouldn't ask too many questions, and I wanted someone to take care of me. We both got what we wanted in the end."

She finished her champagne in one long slug, and the second the glass was empty a waiter appeared at her elbow with a fresh one. So far she'd had three, and her cheeks were already flushed from the booze and the sun.

"But you and Wesley. Anyone with eyes can see you two love each other. That's wonderful, dear." Marcy patted her arm in a strangely maternal sort of way, and Jen just smiled at her tightly, and took a sip of her own drink.

Of course, she and Wesley were meant to appear to be in love, and she supposed Marcy had just confirmed that they were playing their roles brilliantly. Only it didn't feel like playing a role, anymore. His arm around her waist, his gentle smiles, the way he held her when she slept, the bloody pergola he'd built just for her; none of it felt forced or calculated. It just felt...right. Every time she entered a room she looked for him, not because she had to, but because she wanted to. There was no current threat against their persons, as far as she was aware, but she still laid down beside him every night, had not even thought of the daybed in the office for weeks. _It's just that he's my partner,_ she tried to tell herself. _It's just that we have to rely on each other. It's not like-_

"Trish!" Wesley called out suddenly, and when Jen looked she found him waving her over with a smile on his face.

"I'm sorry," she murmured to Marcy, but Marcy just shrugged and went in search of someone else to talk to while Jen marched across the grass towards her pretend husband.

"There you are, sweetheart," Wesley said as she approached, and the second she was close enough he snaked one arm low around her waist, his hand settling heavy and warm against her hip, drawing her in close to his side. Rather than answer Jen just leaned in and pressed a kiss against his cheek; she wasn't sure what was happening here, what had been said - or hadn't been said - that had prompted him to call out for her, and rather than risk putting her foot in her mouth she kept it shut entirely.

"I was just telling your husband we've encountered an unexpected delay with one of the shipments," Hartono told her in his usual deadpan voice, his eyes watching her unblinking. "He seemed to think you might be able to provide us with some assistance."

"I've got a mate in Customs," Jen answered easily. "Depending on the nature of the delay we might be able to smooth things over for you."

It was all part of the legend, Trish Claybourne's mysterious friend in Customs. It didn't have to be; Wesley could just as easily have claimed to have the contact himself, but they had discussed it months before, and Wesley had insisted that Jen take point on anything to do with Customs. Jen suspected he'd only suggested it because she'd been so cross at being left out of the loop, had only been trying to make her feel included, but he'd managed to do it without sounding conciliatory or patronizing. He'd listened when she complained, and when the opportunity presented itself he made sure she'd be able to make herself feel useful, instead of taking all the glory for himself. _It makes us look like a team,_ he'd told her. _We don't just look one,_ she'd answered. _We are a team, Wes. You and me._

"Our cargo has been randomly selected for a secondary inspection. It's being held by the authorities now. We'd quite like it released tomorrow."

"Might be hard to get it done on a Sunday," Jen said, knowing full well that the second she asked Abdul the shipment would be cleared; they'd do anything to keep Hartono happy, to keep building the case against him. "But if you send me the details, I'll see what I can do."

"I think you are quite fortunate, Mr. Claybourne, to have such a clever wife," Hartono said. He raised his glass towards Wesley as if in toast, and only then did Jen notice Hartono was drinking water, unlike the rest of the guests.

"I'm the luckiest bastard alive," Wesley said, grinning as he gave Jen's hip a little squeeze.

"You both must join me on the water this summer," Hartono continued, his eyes flickering back and forth between the pair of them. "I do so enjoy having company, and it's easier to talk away from the crowds."

The cold hand of fear wound its way around Jen's heart, then. They'd get nothing useful from him tonight; he was, as ever, too careful to be caught out in such an obvious manner. The invitation he'd extended was one they'd been expecting; he took all of his closest business acquaintances sailing on his yacht. That he felt the Claybournes merited an invitation was a success, in that it indicated they'd breached his inner circle, but it was terrifying nonetheless for they would be completely alone, completely beyond aid if they joined him there. SIS hadn't managed to find a way to bug the yacht, which was regularly inspected for signs of surveillance, and Hartono would often disappear out on the water for days at a time. Out there he could do whatever he wished, with no one around to see. It would be an appalling risk, but there was no delicate way to turn him down, and she knew it. The brief for this operation was simple; gather as much information as possible, through any means necessary. Even if her life hung in the balance.

"We'd love that," Wesley answered for both of them. "Trish is a natural in the water, and I haven't been sailing in ages. It would be nice to get back out there."

Ruefully Jen wondered if that was another of his hidden talents, if in addition to home repairs and construction he was also accomplished at navigating boats. Somehow the thought didn't surprise her.

"I shall be in touch, then," Hartono said. "And my associate will leave the details of the shipment in your capable hands, Mrs. Claybourne."

Hartono gave them a little nod and then drifted away, and they let him, stood alone with Frank on the edge of the party, Wesley's arm still holding Jen close. She hardly even noticed it, any more.

"Weasel eyed little bastard," Frank muttered as Hartono walked away.

"Do I detect a hint of resentment there, Frank?" Wesley asked him good-naturedly. Jen tried not to appear too interested in what Frank had to say, but she held her breath, just the same. Hartono would never slip up and give them anything useful; not now, anyway. Not yet. If they could get one of his associates to spill the beans, though, they'd be good as gold.

"Like you don't know he's moving every last one of his contracts from my business to yours," Frank grumbled. Somehow he didn't seem to blame Wesley for stealing one of his best customers, and that was down to Wesley, Jen thought. He was too friendly, too relaxed, too easy-going to be accused of poaching. He just didn't have that steely-eyed, cutthroat way about him. "It's going to cost me millions. And after that bloody tits up in Darwin I handled for him."

 _Darwin?_ Jen thought, suddenly perturbed. She hadn't known that Hartono's business interests extended to the other side of the country. What the hell had he tried to bring into Darwin, and how had it all gone wrong?

"I should have known better than to get involved with some ruddy bastard trying to move live cargo," Frank continued, but then his face paled, as if he'd only just realized he'd said too much.

 _Live cargo?_ Jen wondered. So far they'd only moved guns for Hartono, in and around shipments of cheap plastic shit he sold at a chain of two-dollar shops owned by one of the many deniable companies in his business empire. Somehow she didn't think _live cargo_ meant cats or dogs or other exotic animals. _Oh, Christ,_ she thought. _It's people. He's moving people._

"Listen, you forget I said that," Frank rushed to say. "I've already had the Feds come sniffing through my books. You're working for him now, he's your bloody problem. I don't want anything to do with it."

And then, before Jen or Wesley could say a word, he marched off in search of his wife.

"Bloody hell," Wesley whispered, so softly Jen barely heard him.

"We'll talk about it later, sweetheart. Let's try to enjoy the party."

She turned, thinking it was probably best to save any further discussion of Hartono for after the guests had departed, but Wesley tightened his grip on her, and she let him, let him pull her in close, let him clasp both his hands together at the small of her back while she slid her arms around his neck. Anyone watching would just see Wesley Claybourne being sweet to his wife, would think nothing of the way he held her, the way she looked up at him. Slowly he leaned in, and let his cheek brush against hers as he whispered to her.

"I don't like this," he said softly. "Guns is one thing. Live cargo is something else. We need to find out what the fuck happened in Darwin."

"We will," she whispered back. "But not right now. Come on, Wesley. It's a party."

He was meant to be her husband, and she did so want to reassure him, to reassure herself, that they could handle this, that they weren't in over their heads, that everything was going to be all right. He was holding her, and she knew some of the guests would be watching them; Hartono would be, at least, for his gaze never seemed to leave them. His face was so close to hers, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world, and so she turned her head ever so slightly, and let her lips brush his once, softly. And then she took his hand, and led him back to the party.


	24. Chapter 24

_4 December 2004_

"Come on, sweetheart," Nick said, laughing, as he led Trish away from the garden and back towards the inviting lights of their home. It was late; the party had broken up well after midnight, and Trish and Nick had stayed to help oversee the caterers as they cleaned up the mess. Well, ostensibly they were overseeing the cleanup; in reality, Nick had slipped a few pieces of helpful intel to the SIS plants among the waiters, and Trish had lounged in an empty chair by one of the sputtering torches, drinking down the last of the night's champagne. While the party was in full swing she'd kept things professional, had no more than one drink, maybe two, but as the guests began to depart - Hartono first among them - she seemed to loosen up a little, and by the time the caterers were finished clearing away the tables and chairs and platters of left over food her cheeks had been flushed, the strap of her pale lavender dress falling endearingly off her shoulder. Nick had taken her hand, helped her to her feet, and he kept hold of her as they made their way across the grass, Trish's shoes dangling negligently from the fingertips of her free hand.

Behind him she grumbled, a little incoherently, and stumbled straight into his back as he stopped long enough to open the door. Nick didn't mind, though; he'd never seen a drunk as sweet as she was.

"In you get," he said, holding the door open and helping her to step through. Trish tossed her sparkly sandals into the corner of the entryway and sighed, her shoulders slumping as though she were too weary to carry on by herself.

"You had fun, didn't you?" Nick asked as he locked the door behind him, flipped the lights off and reached once more for her hand.

"It's a party," she told him, shrugging. Her eyes were half-closed, and she swayed on her feet, though he thought that was more down to exhaustion than alcohol; she hadn't drunk so very much, not really, but it had been a very long day. They'd been up with the sun, making sure everything was in place, and then the garden had filled up with people, and they'd been working every moment, trying to put their guests at ease, trying to guide the conversations gently - or not at all - as needed to ensure they picked up some new information, and yet didn't make anyone suspicious. It was a balancing act, a tight-rope walk, playing their parts as believably as they could manage. Trish had managed beautifully, he thought; everywhere she went people smiled at her, and everyone talked about how lovely she was, and she had found out from one of the wives that Hartono often did business with an estate agent who had offices down by the harbor, which was the second most helpful piece of intel they uncovered that night. The most helpful, of course, was Frank's comment about _live_ _cargo._ Nick hadn't drunk much after that; he was too worried about what it all meant, would mean, for him and his Trish, but he'd save those worries to keep for another day.

"Come on," he said, leading her down the corridor towards their bedroom. "Bed time."

It was time to rest; she'd earned it. Dancing from person to person, making everyone she met fell in love with her, a little at a time, she had been the centerpiece of the party all on her own. That lavender dress fit her well, tight around the top to showcase her modest cleavage, spilling out from her waist in a soft, floating skirt perfect for a summer garden party, her legs tan and long and... _perfect,_ she'd looked like a princess. A queen in her castle.

And she'd kissed him.

"You go on," he told her as they stepped into their bedroom together. "You can use the loo first."

She smiled at him, brighter than the stars in the sky outside their window, and shuffled off toward the loo while Nick collapsed on the edge of the bed, rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head. The party had been a grand success, and SIS would spend the next few days going over the tapes to make sure they hadn't missed any juicy details, and Trish had been the most wonderful wife he ever could have imagined -

_She's not, though. She's not your wife._

He had to remind himself of that fact several times a day. Everything was just so damnably _easy,_ with Trish. She was beautiful and clever, and the face she made when he teased her always made him laugh, and she was a comfort to him as he fell asleep every night. Just having her near set his nerves to rest, reminded him that he wasn't alone, and that she was close, that he would be there to protect her, that he didn't have to worry about her, so long as she was next to him. And he wanted that, to protect her, to keep her safe, to hold her, to-

The bathroom door swung open, and Nick raised his head as the bright lights beaming from above the mirror washed over his face.

"Help me, please?" Trish asked him, and before he could ask her what she meant she turned her back to him, and reached to lift her soft blonde hair up off the back of her neck, and his heart stuttered in his chest.

She meant for him to unzip her dress. It should have been a simple thing, an easy thing; he could manage a zip just fine, and it was exactly the sort of thing they were meant to do for one another, to offer aid when it was needed, whatever form it took. It wasn't as if she'd asked him to take the dress off her, after all. It was just a zip. But she was so bloody beautiful, and his thoughts were so loud, ricocheting through his mind like bullets, shredding him to pieces.

" 'Course," he told her. Of course he'd help her, whenever she needed him. He only wished that help didn't require him to stand so close to her, at the end of a long and difficult day, only wished that the quiet didn't feel so inviting, only wished his heart didn't ache, lonesome and tired of the constant running, looking over his shoulder, guarding his every word. Oh, Nick wasn't much of a talker to begin with, but still, he could only be so careful for so long.

He caught her dress in his hands, pulled the zipper down slowly, smoothly, tried not to watch as the fabric parted, as the soft skin of her back was revealed to him, as the zip traveled lower, and lower, and he discovered that she wore no bra at all. If he touched her she would be warm and soft, he knew, comfort and beauty both, but it was not his place to touch her, or even think of touching her, and so he took a step back from her the second he finished his work, and tucked his hands in his pockets.

"All set," he said, his voice hardly more than a whisper. Trish was holding her dress against her chest with one hand, but from the back he could see the elegant slope of her spine, a smattering of freckles across her shoulders, and then she turned her head, and smiled at him, and his heart ached with a longing he knew he could never indulge.

"Thanks," she said, and spared him the agony of trying to answer by slipping once more into the bathroom.

Grumbling at his own foolishness Nick set about unbuttoning his own shirt; he needed to sleep, and put these wayward thoughts behind him. It didn't matter, really, that she was lovely. It didn't matter the way his heart did a funny little flip in his chest when he came home and found her wearing one of his shirts as smock while she worked on a painting in the sitting room. It didn't matter how content they both seemed, when they lounged around together on the weekends, didn't matter how they'd laughed together while they built the pergola in the garden, working together as easily on that project as on any other they'd undertaken. It didn't matter that he felt more comfortable with her than he'd ever felt with any of the women he'd dated in the past. _None_ of it mattered, because this was a job, and they were no more than colleagues.

Only, she'd kissed him. Not on the cheek, like she'd done a hundred times before. They had discussed what they were and were not willing to do, when it came to physical affection, and they had agreed not to kiss on the lips. There was no need for it; Trish and Wesley knew the people around them in a professional capacity, and it benefited them to behave as if they valued privacy, as if they didn't have anything to prove to anyone. It just wasn't what they did, but he'd been holding her in his arms, and she had lifted herself up, and kissed him, and he'd spent the rest of the bloody night trying to stop himself from wondering why.

There had been something casual, almost familiar in the touch, as if she hadn't even realized she was doing it, as if she'd done it so many times before that she no longer even thought about it. That worked well for their cover, but it left him full of doubts. Was she only playing a part, doing what she thought was required of a dutiful wife? Was it only that the party had made her a bit loose, made her forget exactly what was and wasn't allowed between them? Or had she _wanted_ to? He knew he would get no answers to those questions - not without asking her, and he was determined to do no such thing - but it mattered to him. The motivation behind that sweet little kiss would make all the difference. It might mean that he wasn't alone in feeling this strange slide from friendliness towards something more, that he wasn't the only one affected by their proximity. It might mean she _cared_ for him, and he wanted that care, wanted it fiercely, though he knew it was wrong. He wanted-

The bathroom door swung open again, and Trish stepped once more into view. Nick was on the other side of the room, tossing his shirt and his trousers into the laundry hamper by the closet, but he turned to watch her, and his heart rocketed up into his throat.

Trish had gone into the bathroom wearing her dress, but she'd come out wearing one of his t-shirts, and nothing else. She'd washed the makeup from her face and taken the pins out of her hair, and now those blonde waves fell soft and loose around her delicate face in a way that made his hands itch to reach out and run his fingers through them. The shirt was much too big for her; the sleeves fell nearly to her elbows, and the hem hit her just about mid-thigh, and something primal and possessive roared to life within his chest. She shouldn't have been gorgeous, half-drunk and sleepy and wearing that baggy shirt, but it was _his_ shirt, draped across the body of a woman he cared for, as if it were normal, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They shared everything else, a bathroom and a bed and all their fears and all their secrets, and now they shared this, too, this shocking intimacy where she knew, without question, that he would willingly give to her everything he had, where he saw her like this and thought only how much he wanted to see it again, and again, every day for the rest of his life. He wanted _this,_ them, happy with each other, gentle and understanding, wanted her kisses, wanted to feel-

 _It doesn't matter,_ he told himself. _The job will be through soon and you'll never see her again. It's just a bloody shirt._

Trish crawled under the duvet and Nick let her, didn't say a word as she settled against the pillows and he made his way into the bathroom. It was going to be a very long night.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Did I say that Jen's mum was alive in an earlier chapter? Perhaps. Have I decided that I don't want her to be? Well, yes. One of the perils of posting as I go, please forgive me.

_8 April 2010_

After, after the explosive revelations of misconduct at the morgue, after everyone else had gone home, after Ronnie begged off drinks to complete the long-overdue autopsy on the recently rediscovered body of Violet Natoli, Nick and Jen were, yet again, alone.

The plan, when they'd set off for the morgue, was to take Ronnie out with them, buy her a few drinks, try to make her laugh, try to ease some of the burden she carried after losing three coworkers in as many days, but they both understood her need to do right by old Mrs. Natoli. It was a responsibility they all shared, the burden of care due to the dead, and they would not keep her from it. For a moment they loitered in the corridor, wondering what to do next; it was a Thursday, and they both had work the next day, but they'd been intending to go out, and it didn't seem right to just go home, alone. Again. But then Nick wasn't sure that spending more time alone with Jen was the best idea, just now; it hadn't been so very long since he'd been in her bed, sleeping beside her, holding her close, and they were just supposed to be _friends_ , and -

"I could use that drink," she'd told him, quietly, and that settled matters for him. If Jen wanted to go, no force on earth could keep him from her.

So he took her out, anyway. Drove her in silence, not to their usual bar, noisy and full of cops, but to a little pub not far from her house with old fashioned wood paneling on the walls and comfortable leather seats on the discrete booths that lined the perimeter of a dim dining room. It was just supposed to be drinks, but he'd been with Jen all day and he knew she hadn't eaten, so he ordered a bit of food for the table in addition to their two beers.

"It's nice, this place," Jen told him, both her hands wrapped around her glass while they waited for the chips.

"Just wanted somewhere quiet," Nick said. The rest of that sentence, _after the day we've had,_ remained unspoken. There was no need to point it out; she'd been with him through it all, from the moment Corey Mayer's body was discovered behind the Coroner's van three days before until now, and he knew she felt it as deeply as he did. The grief for the injustice done to the dead, and the grief for the injustice done to the living, too. For all the suffering James Boyd had caused he'd suffered, too, watching his young son slowly slip away from him, and him a doctor, a man of science, and yet unable to stop it. It didn't justify his actions, to Nick's mind, but it made them understandable. Well, almost.

"Still can't believe it," he said, staring into his beer. "Nicking babies' brains."

Across the table from him Jen drew in a ragged breath, and when he looked at her he was somewhat taken aback by the anguish he saw in her eyes. She had hesitated, in interview with James Boyd, to bring out the picture of his son, to push him into confessing the reasoning behind his mad plot, but Nick had thought at the time that she just didn't want to hear it. Now he was wondering if it was something else, if something about James Boyd and his dead son and his desperate attempt to understand the disease that had killed the boy had resonated with her quite apart from the injustice of it all.

"He was just trying to make sure no other family had to suffer like his did," Jen said quietly. "I can understand that."

Maybe she could; they all could, on some level. But what Boyd had done, stealing organs from dead children without their families' knowledge or consent, violating his duties as a protector of the dead, killing his own colleague in a desperate attempt to carry on his macabre and misguided attempts at research, all of that was indefensible, as far as Nick was concerned.

"I understand wanting to help, I do," he said. "But Jen, no legitimate medical journal would ever publish his findings. He'd be arrested if he even tried to publish! How does that help anyone other than his own ego?"

Jen sighed and looked away; he'd been expecting her to protest, to fire back some clever retort, expecting their usual back and forth of ideas, but instead he was only met with silence. That was unusual, coming from Jen; she usually talked more than he did.

"He's a medical examiner, not a research scientist," Nick continued when Jen didn't try to stop him. "He didn't have the tools or training to study this disease. He was just a sad old man trying to find some meaning in loss. He went about it the wrong way."

"Is there a right way?" she asked glumly.

The server appeared with their food, then, and they both fell silent, not wanting to discuss brain snatching where other people might overhear them. While the server laid the plates on the table and asked if they needed anything else Nick studied Jen, the set of her jaw, the way she avoided his gaze, the way she'd wrapped her arms around herself as if in a feeble attempt at comfort. He knew this woman, knew her well, after the time they'd spent playing at being married and the last few months spent working together, and what he saw in her now wasn't her typical reaction to a difficult case. Something about this bothered her, personally; Jen wasn't much a one for talking about her feelings - neither was Nick, when it came right down to it - but he could see the pain written on her face. And suddenly he found within his own heart a growing desire to understand that pain, to see it for himself, and maybe in the seeing of it bring her a little peace. Jen was too much like him; she lived for the job, and had very little to show for her life outside it. They were both painfully short on friends; who could they talk to, if not each other? And so, even though it might have been the wrong choice, he resolved himself to ask, to give her the chance to talk about it, if she wanted to.

The server disappeared and Jen reached for a chip, still refusing to look at him. Nick watched her for a moment, took a sip of his beer, and then asked the question that was currently burning a hole through his heart.

"You lost someone, didn't you?"

Jen looked up at him sharply, her eyes flashing dangerously the way they did when he pressed her buttons, and he wondered for a moment if he'd done the wrong thing, asking her something so personal. They'd talked about his family before, his sisters, the kids, his mum, talked about their friends - what few they had - and his footie team, but he realized then that they had never, not once, talked about her family. Where she'd come from, how she'd got here; when they first met they weren't _allowed_ to talk about such things, but times had changed. Hadn't they?

"Jen," he said, softly, already preparing to apologize, and he watched her face soften, slightly, watched her shoulders relax, and he wondered if she'd been thinking about it, too, thinking about how they still avoided the personal things, the sensitive things, even if they didn't need to. He wondered if she'd decided to trust him.

"It was my mum," she said, very quietly, and Nick froze on the other side of the booth, hardly daring to breathe. All he wanted was for her to trust him, to be the kind of man she _could_ trust, and he knew that listening to her now, letting her decide how much to tell him and never pushing for more, was the only way they'd ever build that trust. He wanted to know her story, wanted to know all the things she'd kept from him for so long, and he wasn't about to muck it up now.

"Dad buggered off when I was a kid. Mum always said we were better off without him. And I think we were, when I was little. We were happy. I loved my mum, Nick. She was...she was my best friend."

Jen cleared her throat, tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes, and Nick just sat in silence, watching her. If things had been different, if it hadn't been for the bloody rules, he might have risen to his feet and gone to sit beside her, might have wrapped his arms around her, or taken hold of her hand, but as it was all he could do was listen. And so he did.

"I was about thirteen when I found out she was sick. MS. They'd known for a long time that she had it, but up until then it was manageable. It was like...like one day she was fine, and the next day everything fell apart. Do you know anything about it?"

She looked up at him then, and when Nick saw the sorrow in her eyes his heart dropped.

"No," he confessed. "I know it's bad."

Jen laughed, a pitiful, angry little sound. "It's different for everyone. Unpredictable. Her leg would go numb, or she couldn't turn her head. Her hands would shake. She lost vision in her right eye. It was hard for her to do things around the house, we never knew what to expect. The doctors tried everything, but it just kept getting worse. I tried to help as much as I could."

"You were just a kid," he said, more to himself than to her. It broke his heart, thinking about teenage Jen, at home worried sick over her mother instead of out with her friends.

"I loved her," Jen said, fiercely. "She was my mother. And there was no one else to help."

He wanted to ask her what happened, wanted to know how much worse the story got, but he didn't want to hurt her, and so he only waited, gave her the space to decide how much she wanted to tell him.

"I went to uni. I didn't want to go away, but mum thought it would be good for me to get out of the house. Meet people, be a normal kid. I went home as often as I could. And every time I did it got worse. She couldn't walk. Started forgetting things. The medicine helped sometimes, and sometimes it didn't. She was barely fifty, but she'd been sick a long time, and she had an aggressive case. When she was younger, the doctors all promised it wasn't a death sentence, that it would be long progression, that with some help she'd be all right. Maybe that's true for other people. That's thing, you see, it's so unpredictable, and there's no cure, not really. There's things that help, but nothing that can stop it."

It all made sense, now, her grief over James Boyd and his son and his hopeless cause. A complicated disease, no clear answers, having to sit by and watch the steady decline of the person they loved most in the world; Jen had more in common with James Boyd than Nick had ever imagined. _Christ,_ he thought, _no wonder she didn't want to talk about the boy._

"It wasn't the MS that killed her, technically," Jen said, scrubbing at her cheeks as if to wipe away the tears she hadn't let fall. "She got bronchitis one winter when I was about twenty-five. It turned into pneumonia. Her immune system was too weak to fight it off, and she just...she just died, gasping for air."

And after that, he realized morosely, Jen had been alone. Twenty-five, with no family to speak of, having just watched her mother die after so many years of struggling with a difficult, debilitating disease. _Christ,_ he wanted to touch her, to comfort her, to take this grief from her, wished like hell there was something he could _do,_ but he was many years too late, and Jen's heart was already broken.

"If I thought there was some way, any way, I could help other families, stop them suffering like she did, like we did... I can't fault James Boyd for what he's done. Well, maybe the murder part. But the rest of it...I'd do it, too, Nick."

What was he supposed to say to that? What words could possibly make a difference in a moment like this one?

"I'm sorry," he said. It was all that was left to him, but he meant those words, too. He was more sorry than he could possibly say; the thought of the loneliness she must have suffered, her grief, the sorrow she carried with her every day, tore at him until all that was left was a desire to hold her. It was no wonder, he thought, that she was so independent; she'd been looking after herself since she was a kid, with no else to lean on. And it was no wonder, he thought, that she was so dedicated to bringing justice to families, to helping them find some peace. She must have wished for some of that peace for herself, over the years.

"I keep waiting to wake up one day and find out I've got it, too," Jen confessed, taking a long swig of her beer while Nick watched her, helpless and aghast. "It can run in families. It doesn't always, but it can. Another bloody thing they don't know. I don't know if I'll get it, or if I have kids if I'll pass it on to them. I don't know how much time I've got left."

And so it was no wonder, he realized, that she worked so hard, gave all of herself to her job, fought like hell for it; she was trying to make every minute count. _Maybe she's right about that,_ he thought as he looked at her then; _none of us know how much time we've got left._

"God, that's depressing," she said grimly. "Sorry."

Nick couldn't quite manage a smile, but he knew she didn't expect one, anyway. Her confession sat like a stone in his belly, sorrow and fear mingling within him. It wasn't fair, that Jen should have to carry a burden like this, and the thought that she might suffer the same fate as her mother was terrifying. A world without Jen wasn't a world he wanted to live in. Maybe she wasn't the only one who needed to make sure their time mattered.

And so he took a deep breath and reached across the table, and caught one of her fidgeting hands in his own. Jen drew in a sharp breath but didn't pull away, just sat still, letting him touch her, letting him turn her hand over, letting him twine their fingers together, and when he squeezed her hand once, gently, she squeezed him right back.

"You're not alone, Jen," he told her quietly, the words more a promise than he'd originally intended them to be. "And whatever happens next...I've got you."

At those words the tears finally fell, Jen no longer able to hold them back, or perhaps she'd just given up trying. She offered him a watery smile, and he squeezed her hand again. Maybe he wasn't her husband, maybe he couldn't ever be, maybe he'd never been more than this, a friend to share a beer and a story with, a hand to hold when she needed it, but he was determined to be that for her, always, no matter what horrors came for them in the future. They'd survived Hartono, and every other bastard who'd ever laid them low, and they'd survive this, too. She'd trusted him with her secrets, and in the sharing of those secrets he rather felt that he'd come to know her, to understand her better than he ever had before, and though his heart broke to think of all she had suffered he was still grateful for this glimpse inside her heart, grateful that he was the one who got to sit across the table from her at the end of a long day. It was all that he could do, and he did it gladly.


	26. Chapter 26

_25 December 2004_

Jen woke to the smell of coffee and bacon drifting through the house, and she smiled. It was Christmas morning, and a Saturday besides, and Wesley had woken early, as he so often did, and started work on their breakfast. She could not imagine a nicer way to spend the holiday than alone with him and a nice cup of coffee; there would be no work today, as such, just Jen and her Wesley, alone and listening to carols and teasing each other gently in the sitting room, and she was looking forward to it immensely.

It was hard to say what she would have been doing had she been at home for the holiday. Jen didn't know where her father was, these days, and her mother had died several years before. Sometimes at Christmas she reluctantly accepted her aunt's invitation to lunch, but more often than not she arranged to work; no one wanted the Christmas shift, anyway, and it would be easier to forget that she was alone if she had some task to keep her occupied. Most years she didn't even bother putting up a tree.

This year, though, this year was different. Wesley had strung fairy lights all through the garden, and hung garland and bows along the front of the house. He'd procured a massive tree, and they had gone together to the shops to buy a truly astronomical number of cheap, silly ornaments for it. Wesley had furtively placed two small wrapped parcels beneath the tree when he thought she wasn't looking, and so Jen had purchased presents of her own, and set them beneath the tree where they made a merry little pile. A nice breakfast, and two presents apiece, and a whole weekend to worry about nothing at all; so far, it was shaping up to be one of her better Christmases.

 _Now that's a depressing thought,_ she told herself, frowning. She didn't often feel lonely, back in her own life; she had friends, and work, and Jerry, and though she missed her mother terribly she did not feel as if her life was lacking. Perhaps it was, though; perhaps that was one of the reasons SIS had chosen her. No one would miss her, if she was gone longer than expected. Not even Jerry, who she was certain was quite happy in her friend Lisa's gentle care. There was nothing waiting for her at home, and she was spending Christmas with a man she'd only known for a few short months.

 _Don't ruin this day,_ she tried to tell herself as she slid out of bed and shuffled off for the loo. Wesley had gone to a great deal of trouble with the decorating, and he had bought her presents - just like he'd promised he would, that morning they first woke in the same bed - and he was cooking now. If Wesley could go to the effort of putting on a brave face for the holidays, she rather thought she owed him as much in return.

And so she washed her face and brushed her teeth, pulled her hair back into a ponytail and then padded out of the bathroom, went to join Wesley in the kitchen still wearing her pajamas.

He was still in his pajamas, too, or what passed for pajamas when it came to Wesley. He slept each night in a vest and his trunks, and this morning he was wearing the same grey vest and black trunks he'd fallen asleep in the night before, beneath a red _kiss the cook_ apron, humming along to the carols pouring out of their little radio while he faffed about with the bacon.

"Smells good," Jen said by way of greeting, and at the sound of her voice he turned and smiled, that soft, easy smile she saw from him so rarely, and treasured so deeply.

"Merry Christmas," he said. "Coffee's ready."

They shuffled around one another as she reached for a cup and the sugar; Wesley had already poured his own, so Jen didn't bother making up a cup for him. It could have been a normal Saturday morning, save for the sparkling lights on the tree; Wesley had turned them on, and there was something almost childlike and sweet in the gesture, Jen thought.

"You really like all this Christmas stuff, don't you?" she asked him from behind her coffee cup. At the stovetop Wesley just shrugged.

"Who doesn't?" he said. "It's nice."

It _was_ nice. It was nice to do something special, to celebrate something, even if all they had to celebrate was the fact that they were still alive and wouldn't have to worry about Hartono for a few more days. It was nice to see Wesley happy and enjoying himself.

Jen didn't answer him, and after a moment he glanced at her over his shoulder, and she couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking when he looked at her. Though she felt they had reached a certain understanding with one another there was so much she still didn't know about him, and he kept his thoughts to himself, most of the time.

"My mum always makes a big deal about Christmas," he said after a moment. "I've got sisters, and they've got kids now, and it's a whole thing. I figure since I can't be with them, at least we can have some fun here."

The words were delivered casually, an explanation for the way he'd thrown himself into decorating and preparing for Christmas, but it was exactly the sort of thing they weren't supposed to talk about. Jen wasn't allowed to know who he was, where he'd come from, wasn't supposed to know about his family or his life outside this house. And she hadn't asked, but he had taken it upon himself to tell her, anyway, to trust her with this piece of his story. For a moment she tried to picture it, Wesley in the kitchen of his family home, his mother standing by the stovetop and a couple of nieces and nephews hanging off him. How many sisters, how many kids? What about his father? Had it been hard for him, growing up as the only boy in a sea of women? Or had it taught him valuable lessons about dealing with the opposite sex? Was that why he was so capable in the kitchen, why he always spoke to her so gently? There were a million questions she wanted to ask, but he had said too much already, and she didn't want to answer him in kind.

"That's nice," she told him earnestly. It was nice; she liked the picture he'd painted for her, liked the thought of Wesley surrounded by his family. Her own experiences were so different, she couldn't help but feel the slightest pang of jealousy, beneath her fondness for him. What would it have been like, to have sisters to share the burden of her mother's illness, to have a warm place to go every year at Christmas, to belong somewhere? She could only imagine, and in the imagining she found a bittersweet sense of regret.

"Come on, then," he said, turning to face her with two plates balanced in his hands. "Breakfast first, then presents."

Jen grinned and scooped up their coffee cups, and then followed him to the table. It would be best, she thought, not to dwell on _what ifs_ or _might have beens;_ she was enjoying a pleasant morning, in pleasant company, and Wesley had made up a plate of bacon and eggs and her favorite banana pancakes just for her. Everything was going to be all right.

* * *

Trish had been strangely quiet from the moment she walked into the kitchen; she didn't look sad, exactly, just thoughtful, and he wondered where her mind had gone, if she was missing her family, imagining what they were getting up to without her. He'd put such thoughts out of his mind; he had passed a postcard to Abdul to be delivered to his mother, explaining his absence and wishing her well, and that would have to be enough. Her house would be loud and crammed full of people for the holiday; he hoped that the absence of one son would not be sufficient to put a damper on her spirits. The kids would cheer her up, he thought; they always did.

After a quiet breakfast Trish stood beside him at the sink, helping him to wash the morning's dishes, and then they poured themselves fresh cups of coffee before decamping to the sitting room where a small pile of presents lay waiting for them beneath the tree. It hadn't escaped his notice that Trish had purchased two presents for him, just as he had done for her; he'd smiled when he saw them the first time, realized what she'd done. Nick would have been perfectly content with no presents at all, but Christmas just didn't seem like Christmas without _something_ to unwrap.

"You first," he said as she settled herself on the sofa. He reached beneath the tree and plucked up one of the gifts he'd bought for her, holding it out with a flourish.

"You should open one, too," she insisted even as she accepted her parcel. "We can do it together."

"All right, then," he agreed. The presents he'd bought were wrapped in a silvery paper, and hers were wrapped in blue, so it was easy enough to tell them apart. He grabbed one of the blue parcels, and then joined her on the sofa.

"Together, then?" he asked.

"Together," she agreed, and then, grinning like children, they tore through the sparkling paper to reveal what lay beneath.

Nick slowed before he saw what she had bought for him, though; he wanted to watch her face as she opened this first present. He'd gone out on his lunch break one day earlier in the month and agonized over what to buy for her; their every need was met, and anything they purchased for themselves while undercover could not go back with them to their own lives when the operation was through. He wanted her to have something nice, something she would like, but it would need to be something she would not grieve to part with when the time came. A tall order, to his mind.

And so the first thing he had purchased for her was a set of oil paints. The first batch he'd bought for her had been something of impulsive purchase, and he'd gone to the store not having any idea what he was looking for, or what was needed. Over the next few months she'd produced two paintings, one of which she refused to show him, and the second, a somewhat abstract landscape of a forest in dark browns and greens, he had insisted they hang in pride of place in the foyer. But he'd wondered how long the first set of paints would last her, and wondered if there might be something nicer he could procure for her, and so he'd done his research, and returned to the shop determined to make a better go of it this time than he had the last.

"Oh, Wesley," she sighed as she opened the box, and saw what lay inside, shockingly expensive tubes of paint in every color they carried in the store.

"I did all right, then?" he asked, half-joking. Trish didn't answer, just looked up at him with watery eyes and a tremulous smile, and he ducked his gaze down to the package in his hands, trying to ignore the way his heart swelled when she looked at him like that.

"Go on, then," she urged him, and so he finished unwrapping his own present, and found inside a plain but very finely made shirt in a dark shade of green.

"The shirts they gave you are terrible," Trish told him. "I wanted you to have something nice."

Nick laughed out loud; he couldn't have agreed more. Wesley's wardrobe was garish, all patterned shirts with obnoxious silver snaps and leather jackets and pin-striped suits. In his own life Nick wore white shirts to work more often than not, and he certainly never wore anything paisley. The shirt she'd bought was expensive, and the fabric was nice to the touch, and it was much more in keeping with his own personal tastes; it was, he thought, a gift perfect for _him,_ and not for Wesley.

"Thank you," he said, sincerely.

"Green's a nice color for you," she told him, and when he raised his head to stare at her incredulously he found her studying her own toes, staunchly refusing to look at him. She thought he looked nice in green, and had bought a green shirt for him; how much time did she spend thinking about his apparel and appearance? _Probably not as much as you do thinking about hers,_ the thought floated through his mind.

"Go on, you've got one more," he told her, and so Trish slid off the sofa, gathered the two remaining presents and brought them back to him. One more gift each; what else could she have gotten for him, he wondered, and would it touch his heart as much as one simple shirt had done?

Once more they began to open their presents together, but once more he waited for her to finish first.

The paints had been an easy choice; something she could use, and enjoy, but something meant to be replaced, not something permanent she'd have to leave behind. The second gift had been harder; she had a closet full of clothes and her jewelry was scattered all across their bedroom now, and he didn't even pretend to understand the use or purpose of the dozens of jars and tubes strewn about the bathroom. Despite all the effort she went to in keeping up with her appearance he rather got the sense that was more for show, anyway, more a part of _Trish_ than part of _her._ What then could he give to her?

Trish laughed as she finished unwrapping her parcel, and found inside a pair of fluffy pink slippers lined in sheep's wool. It was high summer, now, but-

"Your toes are always so bloody cold," he told her good-naturedly. And they really bloody were; he had grumbled about that many times as they lay down for bed and her frigid little toes brushed against his calf.

He'd thought she might protest, tease him for it, but instead she shocked him, leaned across the space between them and kissed him impulsively on the cheek.

"You're sweet," she said.

For a moment Nick was frozen; they had no audience, now - save whatever unfortunate soul had been tasked with watching the cameras in their house, if indeed anyone had at all - and she had no possible reason for kissing him other than that she wanted to. He wanted to say something, to tell her how strange it was that he was glad to be here with her, rather than with his family, to tell her how he didn't mind her cold toes so much, not really, just worried about her being uncomfortable, wanted to tell her... _oh,_ so many things, but the words wouldn't come, and he didn't think she really expected him to say anything, anyway.

"You finish opening yours, now," she told him even as she slid her feet into her new slippers.

Dutifully he returned his attention to the present in his hands, and finished unwrapping it. Beneath the paper there lay a box full of tools for use with the grill, scrapers and turners and all sorts of things, and he grinned when he saw it.

"You said the ones they had here were shit," she told him as he turned the box over in his hands. "I thought you'd like nice ones."

She was absolutely right, he thought; as soon as the weather turned warm he was outside with the grill as much as he was able, and he had been displeased with what he'd found when he rummaged through the kitchen of their temporary home. And she had listened to his grumbling, and sought to solve the problem herself, and he could have kissed her, in that moment, thinking how well they seemed to work together, thinking what a nice little pile their presents made, stacked together on the sofa.

"Thank you, sweetheart," he said, and she beamed at him, and for a moment his heart skipped a beat in his chest. Somewhere along the way they'd stopped pretending, he realized. Somewhere along the way this had all begun to feel very real. Taking their meals together, washing the dishes together, falling asleep beside one another, buying Christmas presents and unwrapping them together, it all felt _right,_ somehow.

But it was all meant to end. It was meant to end, and they were meant to go their separate ways; come next Christmas would he be sitting in his mother's house, thinking fond thoughts of Trish? Where would she be? Who was she, when she wasn't with him?

"Merry Christmas, Wesley," she said, softly, with a faraway look in her eyes that made him wonder if she was asking herself the same questions.

"Merry Christmas, Trish," he answered.


	27. Chapter 27

_10 June 2010_

It had been, Jen thought, one bloody miserable cock up of a day. Chasing William Clegg, watching Nick stepping out from the safety of the car, trying his best to talk the man down no matter the risk to his own life, had been terrifying in a way she didn't want to contemplate. Danger was part of the job, like the shit coffee and the shit hours and the shit pay, but standing beside your crew in a tense situation was a totally different beast from going it alone. Feeling him solid beside her was reassuring; watching him walk away, knowing she could have lost him, had opened up a chasm in her heart. Nick didn't have to do it, didn't have to march out there and put his life on the line, but he had, just the same. She'd been beside him, as tensions mounted, as William Clegg threatened the prick who'd killed his son, and she'd felt it, the moment Nick made his decision.

This one had hit him hard, from the very first. Something about it, the fact that their victims were all pieces of shit who spent their time hurting other people and the fact that the killer was a decent man trying to put an end to the needless grief they caused, had gotten to Nick. For the first time, probably ever, he related more to the killer than the victims. Justice, an end to grief, these were things Nick fought for every day. And William Clegg had gotten under his skin, somehow, William Clegg with his golden boy son and his shattered wife, William Clegg who just wanted to make things right. William Clegg who had given Nick no choice, and forced him to shoot.

The cleanup was going to take days. They'd all been stuck at the crime scene for hours, and then ferried back to the station, locked up for hours more as they gave their statements, and then typed up their reports. No grace period given, no chance to get their stories straight in advance, they'd been forced to relive those terrible moments over and over before they were finally sent home. They all left together, Nick and Duncan and Allie and Matt and Jen, in a tight, tense little knot, unspeaking as the lift carried them down, as they drifted towards their cars. It was late, everyone was tired, and so no one seemed to notice as Jen followed Nick, left her own car sitting where it was and slid into the passenger's seat of his instead.

She didn't want to leave him, couldn't leave him, not yet. This could be the end of him, if the brass decided to sacrifice him to the wolves - bloody journos had been hovering like vultures just over their shoulders when the shots rang out - if they decided he'd acted in bad faith, if they decided they didn't need a cop who took matters into his own hands. Like William Clegg had taken matters into his own hands. Even if he kept his job, though, even if they validated him, supported him, declared it a clean shot, it was his heart Jen worried for, more than anything else. He was a strong man, Nick, but a gentle one, too, and she knew it would take him hard, the ending of a life.

When she settled in the seat beside him he turned to look at her, surprised, but she just caught his gaze and held it, dared him to tell her to go. He wouldn't, she knew; he wanted her there as much as she wanted to be there.

"Going home?" she asked him softly.

"Where else would I go?"

Duncan would have gone to the bar alone, she thought, and Allie would have gone for a run. Matt probably would have tried to find someone to commiserate with him. Not Nick, though, she knew. Nick wouldn't want to bother anyone else with this, and he wouldn't want to drown his sorrows. He'd just want to go home.

"You want some company?"

For a moment her confidence stumbled; his expression was hard, his eyes full of agony, and she worried that she might have overstepped. They were mates, now, good mates, best mates, even, considering all the time they spent together, everything they shared with one another. It was Jen who heard his confession, when he admitted he didn't want to catch their killer, that he was troubled by his own reaction to the case. He'd been there for her, in her lowest moments, and she just wanted to return the favor, to comfort him, when everything was falling apart. But maybe he didn't want her comfort, her quiet company, the low-boil simmer of tension that always seemed to spring up every time they were alone, these days, fostered by old intimacies and new ones alike. Maybe he didn't need -

"Yeah," he said, looking away from her as he turned over the ignition.

Just that one word, that was all he gave her, but she knew what it meant. _Yeah,_ he didn't want to be alone. _Yeah,_ he wanted to be with her.

But the second the car sputtered into life Bernice Waverly's voice came pouring out of the radio, and Nick froze, a horrified look on his face as he registered her words.

_I can definitely assure the public there will be a full inquiry into this incident._

The public might appreciate a full inquiry, Jen thought, but it would be hell for Nick. Over the next few days his every move would be dissected by the brass, his every word poured over with all the knowledge of hindsight, and none of the context of the moment itself.

_Commander, I think what the public would like is an assurance that police shootings will become less common, not more._

Jen watched him lean back against the seat, watched the far away look in his eyes. Nick wanted shootings to be less common, too, she knew.

_No, the use of firearms is always a last resort. The officers today responded to an immediate threat to their lives and to civilians lives._

At least Waverly was defending him, for now.

_On the line, we've got Roger from South Morang._

_Christ,_ Jen thought, _that's the last thing we need._ Bloody Roger from South bloody Morang had no idea what Nick had been through, no idea how hard he'd fought, how much he'd risked, trying to stop the bloodshed. Roger had never been in a situation like that before in his life, and now he meant to judge Nick, to condemn him in public.

_Hey, the police are too trigger happy, mate. I mean, why didn't they use the capsicum spray, or the tasers or something? Why - why didn't they talk him down?_

Jen wasn't sure whether she wanted to laugh or to cry. _Why didn't they talk him down?_ As if Nick hadn't done everything he could, hadn't ignored her raggedly begging him to stop and gone to speak to the man, tried everything he could think of to get through to William Clegg. Nick had _tried,_ he had tried so bloody hard, to talk that man down. He had tried so hard she could have wept for him, this brave, decent man who had done everything he could think of, only to find that it wasn't enough.

_Commander, your response?_

_Well, as I said there will be a full inquiry. But at this point, it appears the officers involved today in this tragic incident used entirely appropriate force._

_They didn't have to shoot him, mate._ Bloody Roger, again. _I mean, look, if it's not street violence it's cops acting like gun-crazy cowboys. I mean, when's it going to stop, mate?_

The interview stopped there, at least for Nick and Jen; she couldn't stomach it any more, and so she reached out and turned the radio off abruptly. It wouldn't do Nick any good, listening to Roger prattle on and on and Waverly repeating the same company lines. The thing had already been done; Nick had tried his best, and William Clegg was dead anyway. Dead because Nick killed him. The first shot, Nick had only winged him, enough to stop him and give the thug on the ground in front of him a chance to scramble away. He hadn't shot to kill; he had deliberately tried to stop the man, and save him. It was a kindness, that first shot. But Clegg hadn't stopped; he'd raised his gun and pointed it at Nick. He knew what he was doing, then; he'd already fired one shot, and he was aiming his gun at a cop, he knew what would come next. But he'd wanted it, Jen thought. Clegg had wanted an end to it, and he'd forced Nick to bring about that end for him.

_The bastard._

In the darkness she looked across at Nick, at the self-loathing written all over his face. Surely he knew that he'd had no other choice, she thought. Surely he knew that any of them would have reacted the same, in his shoes. He must have known it, but it wouldn't make any difference, not to Nick. He'd blame himself for this for the rest of his life.

Unable to bear the terrible silence and the weight of his grief any longer Jen reached out, and covered Nick's hand where it rested against the gearshift. She wrapped her hand around his, and held him tight, trying to tell him that she understood. Not just what he'd done, but why he was so broken up about it. The first time Jen had killed anyone, she'd retched when Wolfie told her that she was the one who'd fired the killing shot, and then curled up with her back against a tree in the park, right next to her own puke, and wept until she could hardly breathe. She knew what it was, to have no other choice, and still regret what she'd done. And she knew Nick, and she knew that his heart was good, and she knew he could hardly stomach it.

While she held his hand he turned to look at her, his eyes searching her face, and she let him, let him see her understanding of him shining in her eyes. There were no words to say in this moment, nothing that would make it better; platitudes and reassurances held no sway for a heart in such turmoil. What she wanted to do, more than anything else, was just hold him.

"Home?" she asked him softly.

He sighed and squeezed her hand, and then turned his attention to the car. In silence he drove, the familiar streets sliding by, and after a moment Jen realized he wasn't driving them to his house. She'd thought maybe he'd take her back to his, thought they could have a drink and she'd take a taxi home once she was certain he was all right, but apparently that wasn't Nick's plan; he was driving them back to hers. Maybe he just meant to drop her off there before making his way home alone, but somehow she didn't think so.

The drive wasn't so very long, but the silence was oppressive, heavy, unsettling. She could almost feel the agonized churning of his thoughts, the self-recrimination and the _what ifs_ , and she wanted to give him the chance to vent, to unburden himself, wanted him to know he could lean on her, if he wanted to. Nick wasn't the sort who needed support, usually, but there was nothing usual about this day. Would he talk to her, let her in, or would he insist on staying strong, the way he always did?

The car lumbered to a stop, and once more she was watching him in the darkness.

"Can I come in?" he asked softly, not looking at her.

Jen smiled, just a little; she couldn't help it. He was such a sweet man, Nick; even now, when everything was falling apart, he wouldn't presume to enter her house without permission, wouldn't make demands of her.

"Yes," she answered, just as softly.

They made their way into the house together, Nick and Jen, not touching but walking close, still. She wanted to touch him, to hold him, to tell him that whatever he might have thought he was a better man than William Clegg. There was a part of Nick's heart that understood the impulses that had led the man to violence, but there was too much goodness in him to condone further carnage. His heart had broken for William Clegg, but he had spoken of the man's son, of honor and justice, as man who understood the true meaning of those words.

 _He'd make a good dad._ That was the real tragedy of Nick, she thought; he had a kind heart, and strong hands, and a gentle way about him, and he would have made a perfect husband for a woman, a devoted father for children, but he remained, as she was, alone.

 _You ever thought about having kids?_ He'd asked her once. _Never had the right partner,_ she'd told him. And when he'd answered _me, neither,_ she'd heard regret in his voice. Had he thought about it, then, she wondered, thought about having kids of his own, thought about how it would feel, to love someone so much, and seen the carnage of that love in William Clegg, and grieved for it?

They stopped together just inside the door. Nick stood near to her, shoulders slumped and his head hung low, and as she reached around him to lock the door he swayed towards her, just a little, suddenly so close his cheek was almost touching hers. In that moment she could have taken them to safer ground, offered to feed him, offered him a beer, led him to the kitchen. But she wasn't hungry, and she wasn't thirsty, and there was nothing in the kitchen she wanted, and so she took his hand once more, and led him to her bedroom instead.

The room was dark, and she didn't bother turning on the light. She just started to peel herself out of her suit, watched as Nick did the same, their jackets hitting the floor, then their belts, then their trousers. How many times had they done this, undressed together at the end of a long day, more exhausted than enticed by one another? More times than she could count, she thought. There was something familiar about it, the way they moved together, the way they both understood what this was, the way they both wanted it, wanted just to be together, and quiet, at the end of a horrible day.

When they were both stripped down to vests and underwear they folded themselves into bed together; Nick rolled away from her, and Jen pressed herself hard to his back, draped her arm around his waist and brushed a kiss against the curve of his shoulder.

"You did everything you could," she whispered.

Nick didn't answer her. Instead he took hold of her hand, and held it fast against his chest, just above his beating heart. And then, in the silence, his body began to shake, and Jen just held him tight, and let him cry.


	28. Chapter 28

_14 January 2005_

Nick woke slowly, gradually, the gentle light of dawn filtering in through the curtains sufficient to pull him up out of his dreams. They had been quiet dreams, dreams of him working in the garden while Trish looked on, beautiful and tan and content beneath the pergola he'd built for her. Such dreams were not out of his reach; the following day was Saturday, and the weather was meant to be fine, and if no one else came calling perhaps they could spend the day together, outside. Perhaps Trish would bring him a glass of lemonade, and they'd speak to one another softly, and everything would be all right.

But first, they would have to make it through this day. A meet with Adbul and a shipment for Hartono and god only knew what all else. First he would need to rise and start the coffee, go for a jog with Trish before he came back, have a shower and dress for the day; they'd drive into the office together, and he'd spend the morning sifting through emails, some related to the business and some from SIS. He'd take Trish to lunch at a quiet little restaurant and if Abdul had something for them he'd arrange for it to be delivered to their table with their entrees. After that Trish would be off for manicures with the girls and he'd be headed back to the office, to sit with his door closed and play solitaire on the computer while his assistant did all the real work until it was time to meet Hartono on the docks. After that, home for a nice dinner, maybe a footie match on the telly, and back into bed before midnight. Same as every bloody day.

Strange, how quickly this had started to feel less like an adventure and more like his life. Work and wife and meals, rinse, repeat. The routine fit like a suit that had been tailored just for him, and for every day he felt as if he were suffocating beneath the pressure there were five more that just felt...normal. Good. Right. Like this was what he meant to be doing, like this was where he was meant to be, lying in this comfortable bed with this beautiful woman tucked beneath his arm.

They always fell asleep lying on their backs, trying their best not to touch one another. He always fell asleep listening to the sound of her gentle breaths, feeling the tension slowly ease out of them both, but he always woke like this, pressed hard against her back, his nose buried in her hair, his arm draped over her hip. Most of the time he tried not to think about it too much, what it might mean, that he should reach for her like this, always, as if he needed her. Thinking about it, about that December night when she'd kissed him, that Christmas morning when they'd opened their presents together, made it all seem real somehow, and if it was real, he'd have to do something about it. Maybe he did want her, need her, care for her, but if he admitted to himself that he was falling for her, he'd have to find some way to retreat from her, from this. They were meant to be doing a _job,_ and a certain degree of professional distance was required.

Only he didn't feel very distant from her just now, with the warmth of her pressed against him, the swell of her ass nestled perfectly into the hollow of his hips, the steady rise and fall of her body beneath his arm, her lungs breathing in time to his. They were in sync with one another, had fallen into a strange, comfortable sort of symbiosis he'd never had with anyone else; as if she'd heard his thoughts and meant to prove the truth of them, as if she had sensed on some subconscious level that he was awake and in need of her, Trish stirred, sighing as wakefulness washed over her.

"Morning," She said, and strange but she did not slide away from him, the way she so often did, didn't immediately make noises about coffee and getting out the door for their jog, didn't rush to escape the suffocating warmth of their bodies twined together beneath the duvet. She only lay, still and peaceful, as if she were quite comfortable where she was and had no intention of leaving, professionalism and responsibilities be damned.

"Morning," Nick answered, very quietly. There were cameras in here, and mics, too; surely, he thought, someone must have noticed by now. It could not have escaped the eagle eye of the SIS that Nick and his Trish fell asleep together every night, that they woke tangled up in one another every morning. What did the spooks think about that? He wondered. Would they be allowed to continue on in this gentle, careful intimacy, so long as they didn't cross the boundary into something more? Did SIS think it would be beneficial to their operation, if Trish and Wesley were as close as they appeared? Did anyone care at all? If they did care, were they watching, waiting, analyzing every word, breaths held, waiting for Nick and Trish to stuff up so they could get pulled off the operation? Nick felt no particular loyalty to SIS; he'd do what he must for the greater good, and they were paying him well, but if they pulled him out now he had a home to go back to, and a job that would be waiting for him. Even if Homicide didn't have a place for him, he'd find another position in the State Police. A slap on the wrist and a one-way ticket back to Melbourne wouldn't exactly be a calamity. It was only that he had begun this thing, and having begun, he wanted to see it through; he had never been the sort to leave a thing undone.

And in his heart, he was not ready to leave her.

"Can we just stay here all day?" she asked petulantly. Though he could not see her face he could almost picture the adorable mock-pout he knew she must have been sporting, and it took every ounce of restraint he possessed to keep from kissing the bare skin of her shoulder beside the thin strap of her vest. It would be so nice, he thought, to just stay here, warm and content, resting, to dive beneath the duvet and ignore the world for a day. After all, people took sickies all the time, didn't they? Trish and Wesley were wealthy, and their company hummed along with very little interference from them now. Surely no one would miss them; well, no one but Hartono, who would not appreciate any attempt on their part to reschedule their meeting.

"It's my birthday today," he told her, surprised by the way he could not escape the thought, by the way he wanted so badly to share this news with her. That was something else he was trying not to think about; it was _his_ birthday, Nick's, but not Wesley's, and so there would be no celebration, no cake with thirty-six candles, no trip to the pub with the lads. He would mark his birthday alone, far from home, with no friend in sight, save for Trish. Trish, who was absolutely _not_ supposed to know anything about him, including his real date of birth. And yet, he'd gone and told her anyway.

It wasn't that he was particularly bothered about birthdays; he never paid much attention to them, and never saw much point. It was only that the date served as a bleak reminder of the passage of time, the fact that he thought he'd be home by now and yet remained stuck in Wesley Claybourne's life, with no end in sight. It was only that he'd realized he had no idea when _her_ birthday was, and lamented, for all the secrets he would never be allowed to learn.

"Yeah?" she asked, softly.

"Yeah," he answered, his voice as quiet as hers had been.

"I feel like we ought to celebrate," she told him. Nick tried to picture it, sitting with her at the kitchen table, a little cupcake with one single candle stuck in it, her brilliant smile; _Christ,_ he wanted that, and it frightened him to think how much.

"Hard to do that when Wesley's birthday was days ago."

It was a strange piece of happenstance, them both having been born in January of 1969. But Wesley's birthday was the 3rd, and they had both let the date pass unremarked; if pressed they'd laugh and say Wesley didn't want to make a fuss, that they'd celebrated in private, but the truth was it had felt wrong, to him, to celebrate a man who had gotten himself embroiled in gun running and worse before being relocated out of the country by the feds. Maybe they could do something now, pretend they were just getting to it late, but he was of the belief that it was always better to keep quiet rather than make a grand show of things. The less attention they drew to themselves the fewer lies they'd have to keep straight.

"A cake, at least," she said, and as she spoke her hand brushed against his where his palm still lay pressed flat to her belly. For a moment he thought she meant to hold his hand and adrenaline shot through him quick as lightning, but the touch was fleeting, and his heart settled, disappointed and disapproving in equal measure.

"Do you have some secret baking skills I don't know anything about?" he asked, amused by the very idea. He cooked more than Trish did, which was not to say that he cooked a great deal. Most of the time they ate takeout on SIS's tab.

"I have all sorts of secret skills you don't know anything about," she told him. Her voice was light, teasing, but the quiet, crystalline beauty of the moment colored everything in a faint layer of tension, and his breathing shallowed as she spoke, images of her, beautiful, resplendent, naked, in bed, with him, flitting through his mind unbidden.

"But no, not baking," she added quickly, and there was a breathy quality to her voice that made him wonder if perhaps he wasn't the only one thinking things he ought not have been.

"We should get up," he said. The morning was wearing on, and this was dangerous, lying here with her, thinking about birthdays and cakes and how she'd look with a streak of flour across her cheek, his hand reaching out to brush it away, and how she might -

"Can we stay?" she breathed, so quietly he knew the mics wouldn't pick it up. "Just for a little while longer?"

He knew why she was asking. It got to be too much, sometimes. Remembering what they could and couldn't say, remembering who they were meant to be. Following the structure of a stranger's life, beholden to the whims of the men who held the strings. In this strange in-between place they had no birthdays, but they also had two apiece, two parallel lives they struggled to keep separate from one another. And Nick couldn't help but wonder what might have happened, if only he'd met her _there_ , and not _here._ If he'd bumped into Trish, or whoever the bloody hell she was, in a coffee shop in Melbourne, and not a seedy hotel room in Sydney. He couldn't help but wonder if maybe in another life they would have cared for one another, not because they had no choice, but because they wanted to.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, 'course we can."

And so they did, stayed right where they were, quiet and silent as the sun rose beyond the windows of their little bedroom. The appointed time for their morning jog came and went, and still they remained, breathing softly together and thinking all manner of thoughts they were unwilling to share with one another.


	29. Chapter 29

_6 August 2010_

"You know you really are good with kids," Rhys said, and the softest, saddest of smiles tugged at the corner of Jen's lips. Everyone was always saying that, always telling her she was the best on the cases with the kids, always pulling her in to assist when they thought her gentle touch was needed, always watching her with a question in their eyes they knew better than to ask, but that she heard just the same. _If you're so good with kids, and you like them so much, why don't you have any?_ The older she got the less often people asked that question outright, but she saw it in their curious gazes, heard the words they did not say, the words Rhys wasn't saying now. Sometimes they pitied her, with nothing to show for her life but her job - a job she loved, a job she'd worked damn hard for, not that it seemed to matter to anyone else - and sometimes they seemed to be wondering where it had all gone wrong for her, as if they all thought surely a woman her age would be desperate to have kids, as if they supposed some terrible tragedy must lurk in her past.

When Rhys asked his question Nick looked up sharply from across the room; Jen caught the movement of his head from the corner of her eye, and felt a rush of fondness for him, for the wary, almost protective look on his face, as if he were listening out, ready to defend her from Rhys's insensitivity at a moment's notice. Of everyone on the team Nick was the only one she'd ever spoken to frankly about her feelings on the subject of children, the only one who knew the real reason she'd never had kids of her own.

_Never found the right partner._

_Me, neither._

She trusted him enough to tell him that, Nick who knew everything there was know about her, who'd kissed her before he learned her real name, saved her life, made her laugh, bought her thoughtful Christmas presents and fell asleep with his arm wrapped around. Nick who stood beside her at work, backed her every play, moved so seamlessly in step with her that sometimes she forgot they didn't share a single brain. Of all of them, he was the only one she'd felt she could confess the truth to; there was no point in keeping her guard up with Nick, when he knew it all already. She'd breathed her secrets against his skin years before, and he had never forgotten them, she knew. She'd never forgotten his.

"Yeah," she said to Rhys, a little dismissively. _Yeah,_ she was good with kids. _Yeah,_ she didn't want to talk about it, especially not now, when young Stuart was dead and grief had settled low in her gut. Was the boy dead because of her, because she'd pushed him, because she hadn't pushed hard enough? Could she have saved him, if only she'd tried a little harder, been a little better? The questions were coming hard and fast, and she could not stop them, and she didn't fancy playing mind games with Rhys, just now.

"No, really." It was Rhys who was pushing this time, no doubt hoping she'd confess some piece of her private life to him, help bind them all together. He was still so new, still learning the way things worked in Homicide, and their first case together hadn't gone as smoothly as either of them would have liked. It had, actually, all but driven Jen mad, and she still didn't entirely trust Rhys, with his fancy degrees and his fancy laptop and his posh connections. Let him ask all he liked; Oxford or not, he'd not be getting the best of her in this interview.

Jen shot him a pointed look, and he smiled, shrugged, and took off for the night; he was smart enough to know better than to keep picking at her, at least. Maybe he'd seen Nick, looming in the background, watching over her, and decided it would best to concede defeat. Maybe he'd be asking himself questions about that, too.

 _Let him wonder,_ she thought. _He'll never get anywhere close to the truth._

None of them would, or could, ever even begin to guess what lay buried in the past for Nick and Jen both, the seeds they had planted and begun to cultivate here in the present. Over the last year he had become her best friend, the one person she trusted most, the one person she wanted with her when everything went to shit, as dear to her as her own right hand. Every time she looked she found Nick standing beside her, ready to catch her, if she needed him, but never insinuating himself without invitation. He was quiet about it, the way he was quiet about everything, never let anyone see just how close he had grown to her, never let anyone hear their quiet conversations, never let anyone see the heat flickering in his eyes when he looked at her. No one knew about the nights he'd spent in her bed, or her in his; no one knew about the night she'd wept, curled in his lap in the front seat of his car, or the heat of his hand under hers when she reached for him. These secrets they kept, these and so many others, so many it made her head spin, sometimes, just thinking about it.

"So, are you up for a drink?"

Nick came sidling up as Rhys departed, watching her with a warmth in his eyes, his posture open, unguarded, easy. It wasn't so unusual, that he should ask her to join him for a drink. If she'd been working a hard case with Matty or Duncan they'd have asked her the same thing at the end of it, even if they were the last two people at their posts, as Nick and Jen were now. Matty or Duncan would have asked, and she would have agreed, and thought nothing of it, going to have a drink alone with them, because they were safe, because they were her mates, because there never had been and never would be anything more than friendship between them. The thought of risking her career for a shag with either of them was laughable; they knew where they stood with one another.

Nick, though. Nick was something else. Nick inviting her out for a drink alone, even when she knew he didn't expect anything more than a bit of friendly conversation from her, felt dangerous, somehow, especially in a moment like this one, when her nerves were shot and her heart was hurting and she was desperate for some shred of comfort. Nick wasn't just a mate; he'd run his hands along every inch of her skin, kissed her until she was breathless and trembling with want, held her when she fell to pieces. If she went out with Duncan, they'd laugh until they were both holding back tears. If she went out with Matt, he'd get maudlin and she'd end up comforting _him._ But if she went out with Nick, late in the evening at the end of a terrible day, she'd look across the table at him in the darkness and want would flicker like fire at the base of her spine and her hands would itch to hold him, and she wasn't sure she could remember to put the job first tonight, not after the day she'd had, not after Rhys's careful questioning, not after looking at him now, the breadth of his shoulders, his soft lips, his gentle eyes. And if she wasn't strong enough to keep her distance, she knew he wouldn't be, either, and then what would become of them?

"I'm just about to call Kevin Masters's wife," she said by way of a gentle rejection, "and tell her that we caught her husband's killer."

Nick smiled knowingly, recognizing both the reason why she felt the need to call the woman herself, so late in the evening, and the fact that she was turning him down.

"Good," he said. "See you tomorrow."

And with those words he turned away, began to march across the bullpen towards the lift. That was the thing about Nick; whatever he wanted, whatever he longed for, he always took his cue from her. She'd said no, and he'd not tried to make her change her mind, had not tried to goad her into more than she was ready for; he just accepted her, as she was, always.

But she knew that when he left she'd be alone. Alone with the grief that sat heavy as a stone in the pit of her stomach, alone with the telephone and a crying widow. After that she'd be alone in her car, and then alone in her kitchen with a container of cold Chinese takeaway, and then alone in her bed, staring at the ceiling and replaying the events of the last few days over and over in her mind, trying to work out where it all went wrong. She'd be alone, with no one to talk to about the niggling voice in the back of her mind, reminding her that time was passing, that perhaps too much time had passed already, that any hope of marriage and babies and a family that felt as fulfilling as her job was beyond her grasp. Alone with the thought that maybe this was _it,_ forever, that all she'd ever have was a job that left her too weary for anything else, and friends who would eventually leave her as their own lives called them away, and all she would be left with was _alone._

She didn't want him to go, not really. She thought she _should,_ thought it would be the right thing to do, the reasonable, _safe_ thing to do, but he'd given her a chance not to be alone, and she suddenly found that she didn't want to waste it. If she continued to do the same things she had always done nothing would ever change, and she would never know what might have been. But if she took a chance - even a small one - she might find so much more waiting for her than she ever imagined. Somehow, some way, he had been returned to her, a year before, and he was as kind and thoughtful and gentle and handsome now as he had ever been when he was Wesley - more so, without the garish clothes - and he wanted to have a drink with her, and what would be worse, she asked herself, to go and have a drink with a man she cared for, or to go home alone? It was just a drink, not a marriage proposal.

But it was a drink with _Nick,_ flirting around the edges of this affection that bubbled between them, this want neither of them were ready to face, this need that had him crawling into her bed when the world was too terrible for him to face it alone, this need that left her clinging to him, desperate not to lose him. It was only a drink, but it had been a shit day, and if he reached for her across the table in a dimly lit pub, if he offered to drive her home after, it might become so much more. That thought terrified her - she did not want to risk losing her job, or his friendship, or both - but it made her ache, too.

Maybe the time had come to do something about it, after all. Maybe if Nick reached for her hand she ought to let him. Maybe if he wanted to hold her she ought to fold herself into his embrace. Maybe the only way she'd ever find out what might happen would be to let things unfold as they would, and stop fighting it at every turn. Maybe she was running out of chances; maybe this refusal would be one too many, and she'd be left wondering, alone, for the rest of her life.

"It should only take 10 to 15 minutes, if you're ok to wait," she called after him before she could think better of it, her heart hammering in her chest.

Nick stopped in his tracks, halfway across the room, and spun slowly around to face her, and she could not help the smile that bloomed across her face, because when she looked at him now she saw that he was more than willing to wait ten minutes, just for the chance to spend more time with her. When she looked at him now she saw relief in his eyes, and satisfaction in the set of his mouth; he hadn't wanted to leave her, any more than she wanted him to go, and she found that thought somehow both reassuring and electrifying. Maybe she wasn't the only one who was wondering how many chances they had left, if this was one of them. Slowly, very slowly, he marched back across the bullpen towards her, and settled into the chair at his desk just beside her, his forearms resting lightly on his knees, watching her fondly as she turned her attention back to the telephone.

It only took five minutes, in the end - the poor woman seemed too shell shocked to ask many questions - and when it was done Nick was still waiting, still and calm, and smiling at her. They rose from their chairs together, gathering their jackets, and marched off for the lifts, her arm brushing gently against his shoulder as they went.


	30. Chapter 30

_12 February 2005_

The sky above was as blue as the water below, not a cloud to be seen to mar the perfect brilliance of the sun reflecting off the gentle waves. The crowded confines of the city were far behind them, their only fellow travellers a pair of seabirds wheeling in the air overhead. The little cove they found themselves in was apparently a favorite of Hartono's, though Nick would have been hard pressed to find the thing on a map, let alone explain how they'd got there in the first place. He and Trish had climbed aboard the yacht on Friday morning, and since then they had enjoyed fine food, desultory conversation, and their own private suite, mercifully unobserved for the first time in six months. Not that either of them felt particularly relaxed, under the circumstances; they were alone, on the water, with Hartono, his associate Mr. Prakoso, and Frank and his wife Marcy. The inclusion of Frank and Marcy might have come as a relief had they not known already that Frank had been complicit in Hartono's previous foray into human trafficking; he might have seemed a nice enough man, but a man with skeletons like that probably wouldn't cause too much of a fuss if Hartono decided to tie the Claybournes up and toss them over the side. Hell, Hartono might decide to send Frank and Marcy with them. Who would be left to report on his crimes then? The birds?

So far, however, the trip had been a calm one, and Hartono had insisted they all go for a swim. His guests had obediently traipsed back to their cabins, and that was how Nick found himself pacing around the too-small bed in their berth, waiting for Trish to finish her preparations so they could go out and join the rest. How long could it possibly take, he asked himself, for her to get ready for a swim? There was no point in faffing about with makeup or styling her hair or picking out jewelry when she was just going to hop right into the sea. It had taken less than a minute for Nick to change out of his shorts and polo and into the navy trunks he'd brought along for this adventure, and yet he'd been waiting for her for nearly fifteen.

"Trish!" he called, exasperated and yet somehow still grinning. It seemed he was always waiting on her, his lovely wife, seemed she always took longer than she ought to get ready for any outing, but the results of her efforts were always worth it, and he sort of liked it, anyway, the easy domesticity of their shared rituals. And anyway, he wasn't particularly eager to rejoin the other guests, to laugh and joke with Frank and talk shop with Hartono like the whole business didn't turn his stomach. He would have much preferred going sailing with Trish alone.

 _Maybe we could make that happen,_ he thought, not for the first time. Pick a weekend when nothing much was happening, go down to the harbor, charter a boat. They could do the tourist gambit, see all the sights from the water. It might be a nice way to spend the day, so long as he was with her.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Trish called back, and between one heartbeat and the next the door to their little bathroom swung open and she stepped into view, and Nick damn near stopped breathing on the spot.

She was nothing short of spectacular. Though they had packed their suitcases together, discussing what they'd need - Trish insisting on his bringing three more outfits than he thought was strictly necessary - he had not seen her swimsuit, and so he was utterly unprepared for the sight that greeted him.

In deference to their planned activities Trish had caught her soft blonde hair in a loose ponytail, showing off the high, sharp curve of her cheekbones, the fierce brilliance of her eyes. She wore not a trace of makeup nor a single piece of jewelry, but she still seemed, somehow, to sparkle. The bikini she had chosen was a queenly shade of emerald green, the color bright as jewels against her tanned skin, and fit her so well it made Nick's heart ache. The perfect swell of her soft breast, the neat tuck of her waist, the flare of her hips, the long, lean muscles of her thighs; she was, he thought, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in real life. It wasn't the first time he'd seen her half-bare; sometimes when they ran in the mornings she'd pull off her tank top, finish the circuit in just her sports bra, and she had a penchant for wearing as little as she possibly could to sleep in. But it was the first time he'd ever seen her quite like _this,_ so completely on display, and he could hardly think, so utterly bowled over was he by the radiance of her. She had slipped a sort of robe round her shoulders, white and gauzy and see-through, and as he looked at her she pulled it closed, tying the belt loosely round her waist. The robe did very little to hide what lay beneath, but served as a reasonable nod to modesty, and Nick gave his head a little shake, trying to pull himself together. No matter how beautiful she was, she was his _partner_ , in a professional capacity, and he would never treat her with anything less than the respect that was her due.

"Will I be all right, do you think?" she asked somewhat self-consciously, tugging absently on the robe. "I didn't have much time to pick something out."

They'd only had a few days in which to prepare for this trip, and SIS's commands had taken priority over shopping. Trish was the one who'd purchased their swimwear, and Nick hadn't given it another thought, not until this moment, looking at her.

"It's perfect," he said. _You're perfect,_ he thought.

"I feel naked," Trish grumbled.

Nick could understand that; he felt much the same, thinking about their plan to go back upstairs, to dive beneath the water, and him with nothing to shield himself, no way to protect himself and Trish from Hartono's watchful gaze. It was one thing to play the game when he was dressed in a well-tailored suit; it was something else entirely to do it shirtless, in bare feet. And Trish was wearing even less than he was. The bottoms of her bikini were slung beneath her hips, showing off the smooth plane of her stomach, and the top tied behind her neck. A flick of the wrist would have been sufficient to dislodge it, and as that thought occurred to him Nick found himself fighting a sudden urge to wrap her in his own discarded shirt, to hold her close, to keep her safe.

"It'll be all right," he said instead. "Just going for a little swim. And I'll be there. It won't be so bad, will it?"

"You _can_ swim, can't you?" she asked him, arching her eyebrow at him teasingly.

"Course I can," he answered, grinning. "Can you?"

"You'll just have to wait and see, won't you?"

She flounced past him and opened the door to their berth, and Nick followed in her wake, trying to keep his eyes off the swell of her ass in that green bikini, taunting him from beneath her thin robe.

In a moment they emerged in sunlight, and found Frank and Marcy already in the water, Hartono lounging in a chair on the deck and Prakoso nowhere in sight. That troubled Nick, just a little. It was hard to picture Hartono in a swimsuit, giggling and splashing the way Frank and Marcy were, but Nick didn't like the idea of leaving the boat while Hartono remained aboard. The old expression about _shooting fish in a barrel_ came to mind.

"Are you joining us?" Nick asked as casually as he could manage while Trish slid the robe off her shoulders and set it neatly on one of the empty deck chairs.

"Later, perhaps," Hartono said in that even, expressionless way he had. "Please, enjoy yourselves."

It was not a request, and as such it could not be refused. Nick forced himself to smile, and then turned his attention to Trish, waiting for him by the little ladder they'd hung over the side of the yacht.

"All right, sweetheart?" he asked, reaching out to rest his hand at the small of her back. He had touched her that way more times than he could count, had done it now only to comfort her, knowing she probably didn't like this any more than he did, but he had forgotten, somehow, that this time there was nothing to separate his hand from her bare skin, and they both shivered despite the warmth of the sun.

"All right," she agreed.

"I'll go down first," he told her. "I'll catch you if you fall."

_I'll be your net, and you be mine._

She smiled at him gratefully, and so Nick picked his way carefully down the ladder. The water here wasn't so terribly deep, and he didn't plan to be in it long. He let himself slide beneath the waves, soaking his hair as he went, and emerged into a postcard picture of beauty, looking up at Trish on the yacht, pretty as a princess with the brilliant blue sky behind her. Gingerly she turned and began her slow descent down the ladder; the rungs were wet already, and as she neared the bottom she lost her footing. Nick saw it happen as if in slow motion, and he reacted at once; he reached out with both arms and caught her round the middle, and the second she felt his body hard at her back her hands released their grip on the ladder, allowed him to pull her into the water with him, safe in his arms.

"I've got you," he whispered against her ear as they floated together, both of them breathless, sun-warmed skin sliding together slick and wet, her head resting against his shoulder, her hair tickling his cheek.

"Promise?" she whispered back. Somehow he knew she wasn't just talking about this, about now, about him catching her before she fell off the ladder. She was talking about all of it, everything, asking if he would be there for her when she needed him most.

"Always," he swore.

In his arms Trish turned and pressed a soft kiss against his cheek, but then Marcy and Frank came paddling over, and he was forced to swallow anything else he might have wanted to say.

"Beautiful day for it!" Frank said, cheerfully remarking upon the weather as if they had not seen each other in days, when the truth was they'd been apart no more than a quarter of an hour.

"Trish you looking _ah-mazing_ ," Marcy gushed, but even Nick could see the flicker of jealousy in her eyes, and was forced to hide his knowing smile by ducking briefly beneath the water.

When emerged Trish and Marcy were laughing together, and Frank kicked his way over to Nick's side.

"Us lads have to stick together," he grumbled good-naturedly. "You know what they're like when they get together."

They made quite a sight, Trish and Marcy, water beading on their skin while they spoke to one another, drifting lazily through the water. If Nick allowed himself to forget about Hartono he could almost imagine, just for a moment, that this was his life, spending a beautiful Saturday on the water with a mate, watching their wives fondly, not a care in the world. But even through the blissful beauty of the moment he was keenly aware of Hartono's presence on the yacht above him, and all the risk that it implied.

"We've been having the most awful time with the kids' school," Frank said to him, making conversation just to pass the time. "Lucas keeps getting into fights. Don't know what they expect me to do about it. I'm not at the bloody school with him. They're the ones who ought to put a stop to it."

Privately Nick thought that as the boy's father there was probably plenty Frank could have done about it, but he kept that to himself.

"Kids, eh?" he said.

Frank grinned. "You ever think about having a couple ankle-biters yourself?"

Nick's gaze drifted back to Trish, Trish who was not his wife, Trish who he would never see again once this job was through.

"Maybe one day," he said.

As if she sensed the weight of his gaze upon her Trish looked up at him then, and, smiling brilliantly all the while, she kicked her way over to him, flung her arms around his neck and nearly dragged him under the water. The entire party laughed as he came up sputtering, trying to keep himself and Trish both from drowning, but he could not find it in his heart to admonish her for her face was close, so very close to his own, and her eyes were sparkling, and when she smiled at him like that he could not feel anything but love for her. For a single, frozen instant their eyes locked together, their bodies pressed tight against one another beneath the water, and he saw such warmth in her gaze that it left him breathless. In that moment he wanted, very much, to kiss her. In that moment, she might have let him.


	31. Chapter 31

_6 August 2010_

"It wasn't your fault, you know," Nick said, softly.

Jen looked up at him sharply from across their little table and found him watching her with a warm, understanding expression on his face.

"What happened with Stewart," he said, as if he needed to explain what he meant.

"Yeah, I know," Jen told him, taking a sip of her beer and dropping her gaze. It was what he was supposed to say, what she expected him to say, telling her that the boy's death wasn't her fault, that she never could have foreseen the circumstances that led to it, that she couldn't have put a stop to it by behaving differently. They offered one another those sorts of reassurances all the time; platitudes were part of the job, too. Jen would accept it, even if she wasn't sure she agreed with it.

"And," he continued, and Jen held her breath, waiting for more condolences to drip from his lips, waiting for another gentle compliment about her skills with kids. "I don't fold my undies."

She laughed, and he grinned, and the tension that had been hovering over them since they arrived in the pub seemed to shatter, relief rushing in to fill the empty spaces it left behind. In that moment she was so bloody grateful to him she could have leaned across the table and kissed him; might have done, if things were different. Nick had said what he must, had done his part to try to assuage her guilt, but he wasn't planning to spend the evening rehashing every detail of the case, wasn't going to force her through all that unpleasantness now, when her heart was still so very raw. He had, instead, given them both a chance to laugh, and move on to lighter topics. He really could be a sweet man, her Nick.

Not hers, never hers; she corrected herself, but she knew it wouldn't do any good. They were so bound up in one another now, past and present mingling so deliciously, she knew she'd never shake the sense of connection that wove between them. After all, they were alone, now, nursing beers after hours; no one else had come on this little outing with them. She'd been paired up with him on a few cases now, and once that started their schedules had dovetailed nicely, and they went out alone more often than they went out with their friends. Nights like this had become the norm, the pair of them forging a bond all their own, with no room for anyone else. There were so many things she knew about him, so many secrets they shared, so many details her friends would never know, little mysteries she held close to her heart. He wasn't _hers,_ but she owned more pieces of him than anyone else.

"Yeah, and you don't go bird watching, either," she teased him knowingly. Back when he was Wesley, Nick had done most of the laundry, and Trish had teased him about his fastidiousness, and since then Jen had learned even more about his unusual habits, the disparate pieces that made up his life.

Across the table Nick's face assumed an expression of mock outrage.

"I don't," he protested, mirth sparkling in his eyes. "Birdwatching is an organized activity. They've got rules and score keeping and everything. I just-"

"Like to go into the woods and look at birds at the weekend," Jen finished for him, grinning.

"Exactly," he said. That was something else Jen knew about him that no one else did; on his precious free weekends, Nick could be found on the rugby pitch or in the woods. He could name every bird from the flash of its tail feathers or the sound of its call, and he watched them all with eyes wide and full of wonder, turned into a little boy again by the spread of wings against the treetops. At first glance Nick seemed to be a man's man, strong and a devoted follower of his favorite sports teams, keeper of the grill, but underneath all that he bore a sensitive heart, keen to the needs and desires of those around him, and had a penchant for quoting Douglass Adams at unexpected moments. As much delight as Jen took in mocking him for his uncharacteristically nerdy - for lack of a better word - pursuits, she loved that about him, really. His tender heart, his clever mind, his quiet appreciation for the world around him, his singular pursuit of those things that interested him regardless of the opinions of his peers, these qualities she adored, rather more than she knew she ought.

"Anyway. We can't all leave our dirty dishes sitting in the sink for weeks on end." It was his turn to tease her, and if he had been anyone else Jen would have been cross at the insinuation that she was lacking in the housekeeping department. Because it was Nick, though, she just laughed, wryly, remembering a half dozen little spats about the state of the dishes. There had been one day she recalled quite well, when he'd come home from work and been flabbergasted to discover her standing by the stove eating spaghetti straight out of the pot, because all their bowls were still dirty from a party the night before.

She grinned at him, rather than protest, and he grinned right back, and they sipped their beers in silence for a moment, caught in a swell of memory and fondness that was becoming a regular occurrence between them. Too many nights ended like this one, not at the cop bar they went to with their mates but at the quiet little pub Nick preferred, with old fashioned music playing at a tolerable volume and a few people dancing in the corner. Too many nights ended like this one, with laughter, and a delicate detente, between who they had been and who they were, what was and what would never be. Their own private place, their own private jokes; they were slowly, brick by brick, building a world unto themselves.

The song playing across the dancers behind them changed; Jen saw the flicker of recognition in Nick's eyes at the sound of it. An old song, a slow song, soft and sweet, tugging at her heartstrings, one she knew he liked, too. His gaze drifted over the dancers, the way the couples all pulled one another in closer, heads resting on shoulders, hands wandering lower, and then his eyes returned to her face. It seemed to Jen there was a question he wanted to ask her; the corner of his mirth quirked wryly, as if he knew better than to even try, but she found she wanted him to. Wanted to hear what he might say, and let him hear the answer she might give.

"What?" she asked, letting him know she hadn't missed the signs of his internal debate.

"Nothing," he said, content to let it lie. Maybe Jen should have done the same. Maybe it would be better for both of them if she let the moment go, if she left the question unasked, and unanswered. It was a question he wasn't supposed to ask, when they worked on the same team and were meant to be no more than mates; it was a question she was supposed to ignore.

She couldn't let it go, though. Not tonight, when she was heartsick and lonesome, even with him sitting across the table from her, not tonight when he had been so lovely, when she was awash with memories of how nice it could be, them together.

She rolled the dice, determined to let this play out, to not let this night turn into another missed opportunity.

"You wanted to ask me to dance, didn't you?"

He did not frown, exactly, but disappointment colored his face, and she knew then that she'd been right.

"Yeah," he said, softly.

Yeah, he'd wanted to ask. He had heard that song, and looked at her face, and a part of him had wanted to dance with her. To take her in his arms, to hold her close, to do all the things they weren't supposed to do with one another, now. He was a real gentleman, Nick; she'd never, not once, had a boyfriend who actually danced with her. One or two who might indulge her in a single twirl round the kitchen, or leer at her across a crowded club, but not one who actually knew what he was doing, enjoyed it or even asked for it. But Nick knew how to dance, and how to dance well, and he'd wanted to, with her.

"I wanted to say yes," she told him, her voice as soft as his own had been. She wanted him to ask, wanted to agree, wanted to forget, if only for a minute or two, all the obstacles they had thrown up between them, all the reasons why they _shouldn't._

It seemed her words surprised him; she could see it in the shifting of his eyebrows, if nowhere else. Such a little thing, the play of emotion across his face. Could anyone else read him half so well?

He raised his glass to his lips, drained the last of his beer in one go, and then rose to his feet. For a moment Jen's heart broke, thinking he meant to leave her, but he did nothing of the sort. He simply stood beside her, and held out his hand, and bitter disappointment turned into wild hope in an instant. Nick wasn't leaving, wasn't walking away, wasn't following the ground rules they'd laid out between them. He was asking her to dance, giving her the chance, the way he always did, to pull back if she wasn't ready.

Jen finished off her own beer, and then took the hand he offered her. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she could not quite manage a smile; she wanted this, wanted it so badly she ached for it, but the moment did not feel lighthearted, or jovial, a pair of friends letting off steam at the end of a long day. This was something else entirely; a hand extended, a bridge crossed, a step taken into the unknown. If she danced with him now, their bodies close and warm, flowing together, music drifting over them, she was quite certain she'd fall in love with him. In fact, she was quite certain she had done already.

When they reached the edge of the makeshift dancefloor Nick pulled her to him smoothly, his free hand resting at the small of her back, and Jen sighed, and melted against him, let him lead her in a slow, swaying sort of circle while still the music played. She could feel the heat and the hardness of him, his body strong and certain, her own as pliant as her heart, following where he led, his breath washing warm and sweet against her temple. With one hand she held his, their fingers wrapped tight together, and she fisted the other in the back of his jacket, holding him close.

Another man might have whispered something to her then, told her that he loved her, said _this is nice,_ something, anything, to fill the silence and ease the tension, but not Nick. Nick knew better, knew _her_ better; if he'd spoken to her then the sound of his voice might have jolted her back to reality, might have reminded her how much she stood to risk, if she let this go on, if she let herself continue to drift closer and closer to him. As it was he did not push, did not ask her questions she was not ready to answer; he knew what this was, what she was feeling, because he felt the same. But she could not hold her tongue so easily, not when the familiar warmth of his embrace set her mind racing back to the past, to the way things used to be.

"Do you remember the first time we danced?" she asked him softly, wondering if his thoughts had drifted to that night, their first night in public as Trish and Wesley, and everything that came after, every halting step that had led from that night to this.

"I remember that dress," he said, and she couldn't help but laugh.

"How could you possibly remember what I was wearing?"

"It's not the sort of dress anyone could forget in a hurry."

She hummed and fell silent, remembering how she'd felt half-naked in that dress, vulnerable and insecure, how Wesley's appreciative expression when he looked at her in it had told her she'd made the right choice. She remembered reaching up to remove his tie, remembered the frisson of heat that sparked between them. Was that the first time she noticed how handsome he was? She couldn't be sure. It was the first time she realized how much she needed him, that much she did remember.

The song played on, and still they danced; Jen sighed, and let her head come to rest against his shoulder, and Nick just held her tighter, and kept them swaying softly to the music.


	32. Chapter 32

_12 February 2005_

Jen had never felt so relieved as she did when she climbed out of the sea and planted her feet once more on the deck of Hartono's yacht. While she'd been swimming with Wesley - and Frank and Marcy - she'd felt oddly vulnerable, felt the weight of Hartono's eyes on her while she tried to smile, tried to behave as if nothing were amiss, as if there were nothing at all strange about this, frolicking about while a gun running murderer looked down on her with a sneer painted across his lips. Back on the boat she felt safer, somehow. She'd toweled off as quickly as she could and slipped her thin robe once more round her shoulders; the sun was hot, and the robe did little to hide her skin from the heat of it, or from the heavy gaze of Muhammad Hartono. The bikini she'd chosen had been a mistake, she could see that now; there simply wasn't enough of it, and when Hartono looked at her she felt as bare as if she were naked. But there hadn't been many to choose from at the store, and she'd been short on time, and now here she was, tied into a few scraps of damp green fabric and desperately hoping the knots at her hips and the back of her neck would hold.

Once they'd had their fun, the real business began; without bothering to change they all settled into chairs gathered round a sturdy table on the deck, and the two gentlemen who served Hartono as waiters and gophers and sailors and anything else he might need laid a meal out in front of them before melting back below decks. The yacht was massive; the thought of how much it must have cost Hartono was mind boggling, particularly because he was a man who seemed otherwise unconcerned with the trappings of wealth. He ran an empire of two dollar stores, to launder his dirty money through, and he did not wear designer suits or diamond watches. His clothes were plain, his manner brusque, and as they talked that afternoon Jen found herself wondering what he spent his money on, if not himself. The yacht, for a start, given that it must have cost at least ten million dollars, not to mention paying for the men to crew it. Upkeep on a beast like that would be a small fortune, she thought, but surely the yacht wasn't his only luxury.

 _Unless he doesn't spend the money on himself,_ she thought, picking absently at a cluster of grapes on her plate. Some of it he'd invest back in his businesses, to be sure, but there was the dark hint Frank had given them about human trafficking to give her pause. What if he was involved in other, even more unseemly pursuits?

The afternoon wore on; he had two ships, each with a massive cargo, coming in on the same day, and would need Frank to take care of one while Wesley managed the other, and then coordinate pickup so that the two cargos could be gathered together at one of his many warehouses. The men discussed logistics; Marcy disappeared downstairs for a change of clothes and a nap, and Jen considered doing the same, but when she glanced at Wesley, still bare-chested and tanning nicely in the sun, she changed her mind. It had angered her, in the beginning, when she was left out of the loop. She wouldn't cut herself off from the details now. A few times she tried to assert herself into the conversation, but Hartono grew testy with her, and she kept her mouth shut after that.

They enjoyed dinner on the deck, music playing softly from somewhere; Wesley had located his shirt, and Jen felt just the tiniest twinge of disappointment when he tugged it on. She wanted to change, didn't want to continue gallivanting about in her bikini and her gauzy robe, but she didn't want to leave him, either, and so stayed as she was. Let Frank leer at her all he wanted, she thought; she wouldn't leave her partner without backup. Hartono was liberal with the champagne - though Jen noticed he didn't drink a single drop himself - and Frank and Marcy stumbled below decks when the sun went down, laughing like fools. Jen would have given anything to join them.

That wasn't the job, though. Hiding in her cabin downstairs with Wesley wouldn't get them the information they so desperately sought, so she sipped absently at her own drink, and watched them both, wondering.

"I want to thank you for having us here, Mr. Hartono," Wesley said, as the conversation stalled. "I've often wanted a boat like this for myself. Trish loves the water, don't you, sweetheart?"

The three of them were settled in heavy wooden chairs on the top deck, watching the stars beginning to sparkle in the inky black sky above them. They had dropped anchor for night in that quiet little cove, and no other boats had joined them; they were alone, on the water, with Hartono.

"I do," she said, reaching out absently to stroke her hand across his forearm. In an attempt to avoid drawing attention to the fact that she hardly drunk anything at all she had made an effort to talk a bit more, smile a bit more, touch Wesley a bit more, make it seem as if the champagne had loosened her up, even if her stomach was twisted into knots of restless tension. The smile Wesley gave her when she touched him was warm, and it helped, just a little.

"Perhaps if we continue to work together, one day you will be able to afford one of your own," Hartono said. _He_ wasn't smiling.

"A man could always use more than what he has," Wesley said, leaning back in his chair. "Isn't that the nature of the beast? You get a little, and to keep it you have to spend more, so you have to make more, and it never stops. I'd like to get ahead, if you catch my meaning."

"The work I have sent you hasn't been sufficient to pay your bills?" Hartono asked shrewdly. Jen's heart squeezed unpleasantly in her chest, but Wesley just laughed, unbothered.

"Nah, mate, we manage just fine. But there's the future to be thinking about. Might like to have a couple kids one day. Kids mean a bigger house, and we'd want to get them into good schools, and then there's university and all the rest to worry about. A real man provides the best for his family."

As he spoke about kids Wesley reached out and caught Jen's hand where it still rested against his arm, twined their fingers together and smiled at her gently. As beautiful as that smile was, it grieved her, in a way, for it occurred to her then what an accomplished liar he was. Just how much of him was comprised of lies, she wondered now; was it only Hartono who saw a false face, or did he have a mask saved just for her, too? Just who the bloody hell was he?

"I value forward-thinking in a business partner," Hartono said evenly. "I can appreciate that you are concerned for your future. It may be that we can help one another achieve our goals. I may have a new opportunity to discuss with you."

"Yeah?" Wesley asked, leaning forward eagerly. He was still holding Jen's hand, but in the movement of his body their hands fell to his lap, resting against the warm skin of his thigh.

"We can discuss it tomorrow," Hartono said. "For now, I think I shall go downstairs. You two please, stay, enjoy this wonderful night. Good evening."

Hartono rose abruptly from his chair, nodded at them once, and then marched off towards the stairs leading below decks.

As one, Jen and Wesley breathed a sigh of relief.

"That was interesting," he said.

They couldn't talk openly here, not really. There was no telling who was wandering around the lower decks, or whether Hartono had bugged his own boat, seeking to test the allegiance of his friends. Even in their own cabin they had to be careful; if there were cameras, or mics, one thoughtless word could put their very lives at risk.

"I suppose we'll find out tomorrow," Jen said, a bit too brightly. She stood up, intent on following Hartono down below, but Wesley didn't let go of her hand, pulled her up short when she tried to walk away.

"No need to rush," he said. His tone was bland, but his eyes spoke volumes, and Jen understood him at once. Hartono had told them to stay, to enjoy the evening, and if they turned and fled the moment he departed he might begin to wonder about them, wonder why they seemed so uncomfortable, when they should have been perfectly happy to linger together, alone, beneath the stars. Maybe he _had_ bugged the boat; maybe he wanted to hear what they had to say to one another when they were alone, or only wanted an insurance policy, a way to blackmail them should they decide they no longer wanted to be part of his business. Maybe there were cameras, too.

Jen was used to performing for cameras by now. It was old hat, watching her words, the placement of her hands, never so much as stepping out of the bathroom in a state of undress, conscious, always, of the eyes she could not see. It was unnerving, but discomfort had become familiar to her.

"All right," she agreed, and then she reached out and gently ran the fingers of her free hand through Wesley's hair. Let Hartono listen, she thought, to Trish and Wesley, saying nothing of consequence to one another. Let him watch, if he wanted to, and see only a wife who was gently affectionate with her husband. Those affections would give them an excuse for an early night, she thought, if anyone was watching. And if not, well, then at least she'd had the chance to run her fingers through Wesley's soft, dark hair, to feel it brush against her skin and watch the way his eyes fluttered closed, content with her touch.

She had kissed him, at Christmas, because she had forgotten, just for a moment, that the affection between them was staged. She had treated him as if he was, in fact, her husband, a man she loved, and touched him because she wanted to, because she wanted to offer him comfort, because it was what they did. That kiss, though, had been playing through her mind for months now. That kiss, and their quiet Christmas morning, and his birthday when she'd woken to feel him hard at her hip, though he'd done his best to hide it. He was a handsome man, a good man, a kind man, the only person in the world she could trust. He was the rock she clung to in a sea of madness, and there was a part of her that wanted, very much, to kiss him again.

It would be the height of folly, she knew. They'd never be able to hide a romantic entanglement from SIS, and it would add an unnecessary level of danger to their work, a messy complication they could ill afford. What if they started something up, but it went sour? How were they meant to go on working together if they had grown to despise one another? And worse, what if she came to love him, love him truly, and then had to leave him when this thing was done?

"I'm glad you were with me today," Wesley said softly. "I couldn't have done any of this without you."

His eyes were dark and warm, watching her, and she shivered despite the fact that it was a warm night. What if he was asking himself the same questions? She wondered now. What if when he looked at her he wanted to kiss her, too? What if he felt, as she did, that they had come to know one another, their true selves, that there was more between them than artifice and desperation? Or what if he was a prick, just looking for an easy shag, thinking now would be a good moment for it?

 _No_ , she thought as she looked at him, _no_. He lied to everyone else, but he did not lie to her. The secrets he'd confessed to her, whispered in her ear while they laid in bed together, the pergola he'd built to keep the sun off her, the breakfasts he cooked for her, smiling in his stupid apron, the way he held her hand; it was all genuine, she thought. No man could be that good a liar. She could look in his eyes, and see the truth of him, and what she saw now was a want that matched her own.

"I'm cold," she said, though she was nothing of the sort. "Let's go to bed."

It was an excuse for the potential mics, should they be listening, and the best she could come up with. Jen felt herself drifting into dangerous territory, alone with him without their SIS babysitters, out on the water. If he pulled her to him now, she'd go to him, and she knew it. For months she had been lonesome, confused, and afraid, and Wesley had been, always, the only thing that made sense in her world. Handsome, and strong, and wanting her, he was a temptation too great for her to resist. If they went downstairs they could roll into bed the way they did every night, and fall asleep staring at the ceiling, keeping their own counsel. If they stayed out here...Jen wasn't sure what might happen, in this unfamiliar place, with this unfamiliar longing settling in her belly.

He didn't move, at first, so she thought to encourage him, and leaned down to brush her lips against his cheek.

It was a mistake. The moment her lips brushed against his skin he drew in his breath sharply, and she realized that she had, yet again, touched him not because the situation required it, but because she wanted to. And he knew it, damn him. He could read her as easily as she could read him, now, and he must have known-

"Sweetheart," he whispered, and tilted his head back. Beneath her he was open, bare, vulnerable; the heavy muscles of his arms and legs that spoke of strength enough to hold her, to shelter her, the rise and fall of his Adam's apple as he swallowed hard against the rising tide of his need, the corded vein that ran the length of his neck begging for kisses, his soft lips parted, his dark eyes open wide and watching her, every piece. She wanted more, wanted to fold herself into his embrace, to taste his kisses, to know his name; she wanted _him,_ not the charade they were forced to play or the lies or the scheming but _him,_ sweet, and funny, quiet and strong. And he wanted her to; he wanted, and she wanted, and her heart pounded in her chest, her mind screaming at her to leave, now, before she did something she might regret, while her very soul seemed to cry out for him.

Jen had always been a cautious woman, but Trish was bolder, and she had been living in Trish's skin for so long now that some of that selfish need must have rubbed off on her. Why shouldn't she take what she wanted? Why should she hesitate? Because SIS said so? _Damn them,_ they were the ones who-

It was Wesley who made up her mind for her, in the end. He was still holding her hand, and with one gentle tug he pulled her down to him, and she sighed as their lips connected, relieved. Her eyes fluttered closed as he kissed her softly, gently, and in the space her sigh created his tongue rushed forward, flicking against her lips, and she let him, eager, now. His free hand rose up, and tangled in her hair, held her close, and a shiver ran through her at the sensation. Softly, gently, their lips slid together, neither of them daring to breath, tongues brushing tentatively, growing bolder by the second. Perhaps he meant it to be a short kiss, a brief one, but Jen had no such designs on brevity. The heat of him, the taste of him, left her burning alive for want of him. Wesley was no fool; surely he could feel the need in her kiss, her desperate desire for something normal, for a heart that understood her own, her yearning to cast aside the loneliness of the last few months and all the lies and simply be _herself._ He must have done, because as she continued to kiss him he reached for her hips, and pulled her neatly down onto his lap.

That was the moment she should have pulled away, but she could not bear to be parted from him. Jen slotted her knees either side of his hips, cradled his face in her hands and held her to him as still they kissed one another, growing messy, needy; she felt him grin against her mouth and could not help but answer in kind. The way he kissed her left her breathless, and hungry for more, made her want to laugh aloud with sheer relief. It was _good_ , it was right, it was beautiful, in its own desperate little way.

His tongue tangled with hers and his hands reached for her, slipped beneath the parted folds of her robe and caught hold of the bare skin of her hips. Jen gasped at the sudden, shocking reminder of just how little she was wearing, of how _easy_ it would be to turn this kiss into something more. The bikini bottoms slung low beneath her hips were tied at the sides; a flick of his wrist, and she'd be bare, and then he could -

She groaned against his mouth, and he nipped at her bottom lip, and she could not help herself, then. Desperate for some way to ease the tension that had coiled tight within her Jen's hips rocked against him, and again, and in a moment he was guiding her, his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her hips helping her set a rhythm. Those broad, strong hands of his were gentle against her skin, were not roving, seeking for more, seeking to take and take and take; he only held her, helped her find the friction that left her gasping against his lips. Beneath her she felt the catch of his slowly hardening cock against her aching center, and a whine lodged itself in the back of her throat. She could _feel_ him, hard and hot and _there,_ just there, this beautiful man who meant everything to her, giving her everything she wanted from him now. When the breath left her he pulled away, and her fingers twined in his hair, seeking to bring him back to her, but he just grinned, and began to slowly, so slowly, kiss his way along the column of her throat, from the line of her jaw, down, and down. Her breasts were barely covered by the bikini she wore, and their position and the work of his hands had parted her robe; it would be so _easy_ , for his lips to find the curve of her breast, and the thought of it, while she was grinding herself down against the growing bulge in his swim trunks, left her head reeling. Were they really going to do this? Here, now, on the deck of a boat on the water, with the stars sparkling overhead and Hartono close at hand? It was madness, but _oh,_ he felt so good, and -

"Wait," she gasped, and his hands tightened at her hips, stilling her movement. He had heard her, and he had listened, and she loved him for his willingness to stop as much as she did for his willingness to start.

"We shouldn't," she whispered, bowing her head to let her lips brush against his temple. "I want to, but...not here. Not like this."

It was all she could say, when she did not know for certain if they were being monitored. What she wanted to tell him was that she wanted him, desperately, but she knew that so long as they were doing this job she could not have him, not really. She didn't even know his _name;_ if she was going to let him touch her, let him have her, let him love her, she wanted to at least be able to groan his own name into his ear. There was still the matter of her fear, as well, her fear that he was not as perfect as he seemed to be, or worse, that he was absolutely that perfect, and would never truly be hers. Kissing him, rocking against him, feeling the passion that swirled between them, she was certain that there was more here than lust or loneliness, but it didn't matter, couldn't matter. They had a bloody job to do.

"You're right," he said. Slowly, regretfully, he placed one last kiss against her neck, and then took his hands away from her.

"You go on down," he told her. "I'll be there soon."

She didn't have to ask him why he didn't want to go with her; she could feel the hardness of his cock still tenting the fabric of his trunks. No doubt he'd need a few minutes to collect himself, to let his desire cool, to give them both a chance to come back to their senses.

"All right," she answered, and then she clambered off him, clutching her robe clutched at her chest as she made her way back down to their cabin, trying valiantly not to cry. Kissing him was the stupidest thing she could have done, she thought, because now that she knew how beautiful it was she had no idea how on earth they would be able to keep things professional between them. Now that she knew the taste of him, she did not how she could ever live without it.


	33. Chapter 33

_2 September 2010_

The door swung closed behind Ratcliffe, and they were suddenly, oppressively alone. They hadn't been alone since they returned to the station from the bathhouse, not properly. There had been people underfoot at the office, and then they'd been saddled with Allie, and then the spooks had swept them away, kept them under surveillance in the warehouse overnight while they tried to study their legends. They hadn't even been alone in the bloody taxi; it had been driven by a spook, and Jen had no doubt the man had been listening out for any conversation between them. But they were, now, alone, the house still and silent as a grave, no other bodies milling about, just Jen and Nick, utterly, completely alone. Alone but for the cameras and the microphones; the spooks were always watching, and the memories came washing over Jen in waves at the thought. Memories of whispered conversations, hiding their hands and their tears from the cameras, memories of _him,_ Wesley, and Nick, all of him, as he had been, before. Touching her gently, speaking to her kindly, protecting her, always.

It had been different, the first time they'd found themselves alone in a temporary home. She hadn't known him, then, and they hadn't been in any particular hurry. They'd explored their new house, and Wesley had made her a cup of tea, and they'd talked about shopping and dinner, dancing carefully around one another, so new to the experience, to each other. This time, though, SIS had told them to reach out to Hartono as soon as they were settled, pushing them for a quick entry into his world. Maybe that made sense, she tried to tell herself; they'd gone slow the first time because Hartono didn't know them, because they needed to handle their introductions carefully. This time he knew them well, knew that they had worked for him, gone to jail for him; maybe this time things would be easier.

"Jen," Nick started to say, his voice very low. The expression in his eyes was a worried one, and Jen understood that worry all too well. Everything was different, now; they knew exactly who Hartono was, exactly how dangerous he could be, and they knew, too, that when SIS said _indefinitely_ they meant it. When the first job started Jen had thought she'd be in Sydney no more than a month or two, and thirteen months later she'd been so shattered by the work she hardly knew who she was, any more. Four years before her own life had been less settled, and the choice to leave it behind had seemed an easy one. Now, though, now she and Nick both had something to go home to. He had his house, had found his way back to Homicide, and she had her work, and her friends, and they had each other, the quiet chats over drinks, the terrible nights when they fell into bed clinging to one another, unable to sleep without the other one near. Hiding the growing closeness between them was easy when all they had to do was dodge their friends; how were they meant to do it now, to share the same space under the watchful eye of SIS and not give themselves away entirely?

"Let's get settled," she said, a bit too brightly. That's what SIS had told them, to ring Hartono when they were settled. They'd given Nick a mobile with Hartono's number programmed into it, pressed it into his hands while taking his own away, stranding both he and Jen once more in a web of lies and treachery. A petulant part of her heart wanted to take that mobile and smash it, to take Nick's hand and run like hell for _home,_ but she knew that she could not, and so decided the best thing for them both would be to simply rip the plaster off. Put their meager belongings away and ring Hartono now, before they had a chance to think better of it.

Nick had dropped their bags in the sitting room, and so that's where Jen went next. She walked away from him, quickly, not wanting to see the hurt on his face, the knowing look in his eyes. Somehow he had always known, when she was scared, when she was troubled, when she was hiding behind a facade of certainty, and she didn't need a reminder of her own vulnerabilities now.

With her bag in hand she made her way down the corridor. Perhaps this house, like the Sydney house, had a spare bed somewhere, but she didn't bother looking for it, not this time. That was a pretense she didn't have the energy to keep up. If they were going to get through this she would need him beside her, no matter how much it might hurt.

The master suite was small, like the rest of the house, and so was the bed in the center of the room. Jen flung her bag into a corner and walked to the window, trying to ignore the sight of that bed, that silent, damning reminder that she would be spending her next few nights - and perhaps more than a few - next to him. A few times since he'd walked back into her life they'd found themselves in bed next to each other, desperately seeking comfort, but it had not happened again since June, since Nick killed William Clegg and wept in her arms. Something had changed between them that night, she knew. She'd felt them hurtling towards _something,_ closer than they ought to have been; the longing she felt to hold him had grown so strong it brought a lump to her throat just to think of it now. He'd not come back to her bed since that night, but they'd been spending more and more time together outside of work, and there had been that chilly night in August when he'd held out his hand to her, danced with her, the warmth of him a temptation and a curse. She wanted him, she knew that now, felt that want flooding through her veins every time he drew too near, but she could not have him. Their jobs, their futures, depended on their ability to keep things professional, to maintain the boundaries their work - and now their government - demanded of them, but she _wanted_ him, his warmth, his certainty, his love, all of him, every bit, and the wanting hurt like no other hunger she'd ever known.

 _I don't think I can do this,_ she thought, staring out the window. How was she meant to conceal her feelings, to keep her distance from him, when he had once again become the only person in the world she could trust? How were they ever going to make it through this nightmare in one piece?

The soft sound of his footfall behind her alerted her to his presence; he had followed her to the bedroom, though he seemed to be keeping his distance. Jen knew that if she turned to face him she would find him leaning in the doorway, watching her quietly; she could almost see the expression on his face when she closed her eyes, for she knew him well, and she knew he would not hide his heart from her, even as he tried to keep his distance. That was his way, giving her space, never intruding without invitation. He would be waiting, she knew. Waiting for her.

"I hope I sleep better this time," she said, staring out the window. For thirteen months she'd been sleep-deprived, unable to close her eyes until the small hours of the morning, plagued by fears and doubts. She turned to face him, and there he was, in the doorway, watching her, his eyes soft and sad, looking exactly the way she'd known he would. Looking like this was breaking him in half, having to stay on the other side of the room, not being able to say the words she knew he was so desperate to give voice. They were being watched, now, and he would mind his tongue, but he could not shield his eyes from her. For a moment she looked at him, the exhausted slump of his shoulders, the dejected expression in his eyes. The stupid bloody shirt they'd given him to wear was hideous, but the leather jacket he'd tossed over it was quite nice, she thought. It suited him, and she wondered idly whether he owned anything like it, whether he might want to.

"You," she said, trying and failing to smile, "you always slept well."

It was always Nick who fell asleep first, always his soft steady breaths that lulled her into dreams. Nothing ever seemed to bother him; he had managed the strife and uncertainty of their life the way he did everything, calmly, quietly. And most nights as he slept he had turned to her, and wrapped her in his arms, and she had melted back against him, safe and content.

Nick didn't answer her, not with words, but she saw the flicker of sorrow on his face. Did it bother him, that she hadn't slept easily beside him? Did he miss it, sometimes, the quiet domesticity, the comfort of having her near? Would he have told her so, if only the spooks weren't listening?

Slowly Jen crossed the room, settled herself down on the bed, and Nick heaved himself off the doorframe, and came to sit beside her. She hadn't asked for him, but she wanted him with her, and he knew it. He settled heavily on her left side, his arm and shoulder pressed firm to hers, a reassurance in the touch, and in silence he held out his hand to her. Without a moment's hesitation, she took it.

Jen knew what this was, why he had offered her his hand, the unspoken promise he had made, in reaching out for her. _I'll be your net, and you'll be mine,_ that was the vow they'd made to one another. When she'd left him all those many years before she had thought their separation put an end to that promise. She'd thought she'd never see him again, thought she forget it all, as if it had been no more than a bad dream. But then he'd returned to her, and had continued to fight for her, with her, to support her and shoulder her burdens in this life, in precisely the same way he had done before. He had made a promise, and he had kept it, and he was reminding her of that now. Whatever came next, she would not be alone; _he_ would be with her now and always, not a stranger but a partner, a mate, her best friend in all the world, the one person she loved more than anyone else.

"You ready for this?" he asked, drawing the mobile from his pocket, holding it out in front of him. "Once I make the call there's no backing out."

 _Am I ready?_ She asked herself. Ready to face Hartono again, ready to sink once more into Trish Claybourne's skin, ready for the lies, ready to share her life with Nick, all of it, not just a few minutes over a pint but all her nights and all her mornings and every piece of herself, _indefinitely?_ He waited for her, watching her, still and quiet. Nick knew that of the pair of them she was the one who'd had the most trouble with the work, the first time around. It was Jen who had chafed at being left out, feeling as if her hands were tied, as if she couldn't do enough, Jen who had hated the lies and dodging the cameras more than he did, or more than he'd let her see. And even though they had no choice, even though SIS had them both over a barrel, even though their previous agreement had been sealed in blood and could not be violated, he had tried to offer her a choice, a chance to run, to turn back, to ask for a reprieve. And she loved him for it, however foolish it might have been.

"Make the call," she said with as much conviction as she could muster. Waiting wouldn't change things. Waiting wouldn't make it easier to see Hartono again, wouldn't banish the worries that plagued her. _You have to forget about everything else,_ she told herself as Nick dialed the phone. She had to forget about Duncan and Matt and the rest, the questions they might have, the battles they would be hard pressed to win without Jen and Nick there to help. She had to forget about her house, and the work Nick was doing to fix up his sitting room, and the dance they'd shared in the pub. The time had come to set it all aside, and get back to _this,_ to Trish and Wesley, to his hand wrapped around her own, to Hartono and guns and shipments and the bloody spooks.

As the phone began to ring Nick turned towards her, and after a moment he spoke.

"Mr. Hartono," he said, and the sound of that name in his mouth lanced through her sharp as a knife. "Wesley Claybourne." He paused for a moment. "Yeah," he said then. "Yeah, it has been a long time."

 _Not long enough,_ Jen thought darkly. A lifetime would not have been long enough, to go without hearing that man's voice again. But the call had been placed, and the wheels were turning, and there would be no going back from this. It had begun.


	34. Chapter 34

_4 March 2005_

As Nick pulled the car to a stop he lingered behind the wheel, warring with himself. It wasn't that he was unhappy to be home - for he had begun to think of this little house in Sydney as _home,_ now, thinking of Melbourne less and less - nor was it that he feared what he might find inside. He knew what waited for him, when he stepped from the car and made his way into the house at last; Trish, beautiful, brilliant Trish, would be inside, perhaps whipping up something for their supper or perusing their stack of paper menus from local takeaways, trying to decide what she wanted to eat. Trish would be there, sweet, feisty Trish, who teased him and challenged him and delighted him in equal measure. She'd had lunch alone with Marcy, a rare opportunity for her to speak to the woman without a flock of eavesdropping harpies to take note of their discussions, and Nick did not doubt for a moment that if Marcy knew something worth knowing Trish would find a way to get it out of her. Nick had news of his own to share; Hartono had requested a meeting with the Claybournes for the following morning, to discuss the shipment of some delicate, off the books cargo. Nick rather suspected this might be _it,_ the moment they were waiting for; if they could tie Hartono to something really preposterous, perhaps the live cargo that Frank had hinted at back at Christmas, they might have a chance to bring him down, for good.

None of that gave Nick pause, however. What bothered him, at present, was the small bouquet of flowers sitting on the passenger's seat beside him.

Trish had confessed to him in a quiet voice that morning that today was, in fact, her birthday. _Her_ actual birthday, not Trish's; that was still a few weeks off. Funny that, he thought, that both he and his partner should share birthdays so close to their counterparts. If he had been the superstitious sort he might have thought it was a sign, or something, some indication that they were somehow meant for this, meant to play these parts, meant to find one another. Trish had been kind to him at his birthday back in January, and he meant to be kind to her now, had stopped off at a shop and purchased the flowers and a single cupcake. She had quite the sweet tooth, did Trish, and he thought she ought to have _something,_ on her birthday.

Only now, now he wasn't so sure it had been the right decision at all. It had been just under three weeks since that night on Hartono's yacht, that night he'd lost his head completely, and kissed her. It was the stupidest thing he could have done, and he knew it; she'd been ready to go off to bed, to go to sleep, to continue this delicate dance where they were married in public and something else in private, but she'd been so achingly, heart-stoppingly beautiful, and the shine of the stars and the softness of her skin and the brilliance of her had left him mad, and foolish. It was Nick who pulled her in, Nick who kissed her, let her settle on his lap, let his hands wander. It was Trish who knew better, who'd pulled back from him - however regretfully - Trish who'd left him half-hard and miserable, wondering if he'd ruined things between them.

From that day to this she had been nothing but kind to him, and likewise had refused point-blank to discuss what happened. When he finally went below decks to join her that night she'd been sleeping, or pretending to be; she never fell asleep before he did, and he rather suspected she had only kept her eyes closed and her breathing even to spare them both the unpleasantness of discussing that kiss while they lay half naked in bed together. The next morning she'd been her usual self, grumbling when he woke her and yet sliding seamlessly into her role the moment they joined the others. So long as they were not alone she still reached for him, held his hand, brushed her fingertips against him with a smile, but in private she withdrew, and that continued once they returned to the house. She did not join him when he went to putter around the garden as she once had done, had taken to sitting in the armchair rather than next to him on the sofa, chose pajamas that covered her more fully despite the burn of summer in the air. It seemed to him that Trish had been trying to maintain the professional distance their work called for despite his monumental lack in judgement, and he knew he ought to be grateful to her, for finding the strength to carry on even after he had placed them both in such an unbearable position.

He might have felt rather guilty, about the whole thing, given the way she had retreated into her shell in the days since their clinch on the boat, had she not kissed him back, had she not, in the moment, given every indication that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. It was Trish who'd gladly sprawled herself across his lap, Trish who'd caught his face in her hands and brought him closer to her as if asking him for _more_ , Trish who ground her hips down against him and gasped into his mouth when she felt him already beginning to harden beneath her. It was Trish who'd wound her fingers through his hair and held his face against her neck, rocking her hips so that he could almost feel the heat and the wetness of her through the layers that separated them. No, he did not doubt, not for one moment, that she had enjoyed that kiss, and so it was not guilt he felt, or not only guilt. Mostly it was frustration; he was sick and bloody tired of the lies and the clothes and the stupid job, sick of having to perform for the cameras every second of the day, sick of Hartono and Frank and the spreadsheets and the spooks' constant calls for updates. He was sick of Sydney, sick of keeping his mouth shut, sick of _pretending._

Under any other circumstances it would have been easy, he thought. He wanted her, she wanted him. If they had been anyone else, anywhere else, he could have taken her out to dinner and held her hand in the car and smiled when she invited him in and then he could have blessed every inch of her skin with the affection, the admiration, the desire he felt for her until they were both sweaty and sated and happy, with one another. But the bloody spooks were watching their every move, hanging on their every word. _You don't fuck us, and you don't fuck each other,_ that's what Abdul had told him. There was no telling what might happen, if they violated that rule now, but Nick knew it would not be pleasant. The spooks could kick him off this operation, but they could also get him blackballed from work, make sure no police department in the country would hire him, leave him penniless and homeless. They might even be able to charge him with something, although Nick wasn't entirely clear on that point. Worse still, though, they could do that to _her,_ and Nick cared about her too much to risk her livelihood, her future, for a shag. He had promised to protect her, and now he had to protect her from himself. Somehow she had found the fortitude to reconstruct the boundaries between them, and he knew that he must do the same.

Only he'd gone and bought her flowers. Was that too much? He asked himself now. Would he have done it for someone else, someone who was just a mate? Probably not, but then most of his mates were men, and didn't go in for flowers or displays of sentimentality. Maybe it was different, if the mate in question were a woman. Maybe this was allowed.

 _Oh, bugger it,_ he thought. He reached out, grabbed hold of the flowers and the cupcake, and rushed out of the car and into the house before he could begin to second guess himself once more.

"I'm home!" he called as he opened the door, but Trish didn't answer. Likely she couldn't hear him; some terrible eighties pop ballad was blaring in the kitchen, and he grinned to himself as he kicked off his shoes, and let the music lead him to her.

When he found her he laughed; he couldn't help it. She wore a pair of soft black shorts and a white tank top, her long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail that swayed as she moved, dancing round the kitchen to the beat of the music. It seemed she was trying to cook; there were several pots on the stove and dishes everywhere he looked. Trish always managed to dirty every dish in the house when she cooked, and he shouldn't have found that endearing, but he did just the same. Most miraculous of all, however, she was singing. And it wasn't some terrible shrieking or the low, half-hearted hum that was all he could muster. She was singing, and she was singing beautifully, and for a moment he simply leaned in the doorway, listening, for he had not known, before then, that she had such a marvelous voice, and had he not already been half in love with her the sound and the sight of her as she was now, free, and happy, would have been enough to tip him over the edge.

She turned suddenly and caught sight of him, stopping dead in her tracks, her voice giving out at once, though she offered him a sheepish smile.

"Don't stop on my account," he called over the music, and she laughed, rushed over to the little stereo to turn the volume down. Her song was finished, anyway; a newer, softer one began to play as Nick made his way into the kitchen.

"Sorry," she said.

"Nothing to be sorry for." _Sweetheart,_ he added in his mind. He was trying not to call her that when they were alone, not anymore. "Decided to give the spooks a show, eh?" he teased her gently, gesturing vaguely towards the ceiling, the invisible cameras and mics that dogged their every step.

"They're going to watch anyway, might as well make it fun," she said shrugging, but then she raised an eyebrow at him questioningly, and he remembered the burdens he carried. "Are those for me?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered at once, holding out the flowers and the cupcake to her. "Happy birthday."

She stepped up to him and relieved him of his burdens, her expression soft, now, not sheepish or distrusting or doubtful, but something else he could not quite name.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "They're beautiful."

In a reflexive sort of gesture she lifted the flowers to her face, her eyes fluttering closed as she breathed in the soft scent, and Nick's hands itched to reach out to her, to hold her, though he held himself in check.

"You ought to have something special," he said. "For your birthday."

She smiled up at him over the flowers, her face so sweet and lovely his heart nearly broke at the sight, and a lump of emotion lodged itself in the back of his throat, longing and disappointment swirling miserably inside him.

"I'll just-"

"Let me-"

They moved at the same instant, reaching for the cabinet that held their small collection of glass vases, and the smallest, softest of gasps slipped past her lips as her body came into contact with his.

He should have stepped back. He should have given her space, mumbled an apology, gone off to change his clothes, but she was lovely, and warm, and close, her arm against his chest, and when he looked down into her eyes he _saw_ it, saw that her heart, like his own, was caught in the impossible tug of war between want and duty. Worst of all she let him see it, did not step away or duck her gaze but let herself stand with him, and let him _see_ , that she did not hate him for what he'd done, that he was not alone in yearning. A second passed, and another, and another; they were hardly breathing at all, the pair of them, and tension seemed to spark in the air between them, but the spooks were watching, listening, and Nick felt keenly the need to do _something,_ anything, to shake them both out of it.

"Dance with me," he said.

That was absolutely _not_ what he should have done, but it was what he _wanted_ to do. He wanted to hold her, to offer her some reassurance, wanted to find some way to be close to her that would not bring calamity down on their heads. Surely, he thought, they wouldn't be fired for a dance, and maybe if they danced he could whisper to her softly, tell her in words too low for the spooks to hear that he was sorry, that he missed the closeness they'd shared before the night he'd lost his head and kissed her.

"I do like this song," she said, and his heart gave a great leap in his chest as he realized she was not rejecting him as she perhaps ought to have done.

Carefully Trish laid her gifts down on the counter, and let him reach for her, one hand settling at the small of her back while the other wrapped around hers. It wasn't the first time they'd danced, but this felt different, somehow; the first time they had been hardly more than strangers, in a room full of people, all eyes on them and no room for error. Now they were alone, had drawn so much closer, learned so much more about one another. Now the warmth and the softness of her in his arms was not a foreign sensation but an achingly familiar one, and holding her now comforted him as much as it wounded him.

Slowly Nick bowed his head, let his cheek rest next to hers as they swayed together, bodies warm and comfortable at close proximity now.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice hardly audible over the music. In his arms Trish relaxed, just a little, let herself push even closer to him.

"I'm not," she whispered back. "Not about...that. I'm sorry it had to be this way."

Nick tightened his grip against her hand, held her close while they rocked together. Perhaps it should have hurt more, knowing that she felt as much disappointment as he did, knowing that she wished things were different, but in truth it reassured him. He knew, now, that he wasn't imagining it, that she had responded to him because she wanted to. He knew, now, that he wasn't alone, that she understood the frustration in his heart well, for she felt it herself. _What a pair we make,_ he thought.

"Me, too," he told her. Maybe if things had been different, maybe if they'd met under different circumstances, maybe in another life they could have had each other, all of each other, the way they wanted. All they had, though, was _this,_ a quiet dance in a borrowed house, a few precious moments when they could touch each other without fear. All they had was one another, and he was more grateful than words could say to have _her_. If he had to live this lie, there was no one he wanted by his side more than her, no matter how much it hurt.

Trish sighed and rested her head against his shoulder, and Nick just held her, dancing slowly in the fading light streaming in through their kitchen windows. It was enough. It had to be enough.


	35. Chapter 35

_2 September 2010_

Nick ended the call, and Jen let out the breath she'd been holding while she listened. The thing was done; Hartono knew the Claybournes had just landed in Melbourne and were looking to get back on their feet, and he'd told them he would consider their proposition. That was all he'd given him; _i'll consider it, Mr. Claybourne._ They couldn't expect more from him, Jen knew, not now, not yet, not when they'd only just come bursting back into his orbit; surely he'd be suspicious of them, since it was their arrival in his life five years before that had heralded disaster. Everything had been going smoothly for Hartono, and within a year of meeting the Claybournes his business was in ruins and half of his associates were in jail. Maybe he believed the line he'd been fed, that Trish and Wesley had gone to jail, too; that might work in their favor. If he didn't believe them, though, both their lives were in danger. Starting now, tonight.

"Now what?" Nick asked softly, tucking the mobile in his pocket.

 _Yeah,_ Jen thought. _Now what?_ How were they supposed to fill the hours, the days that stretched out before them? No friends, no fancy parties, no office to go to during the daylight hours, no Abdul Supomo - who had been murdered when Hartono discovered his duplicity - just this house, and the spooks breathing down their necks, demanding results as soon as possible and refusing to see sense.

"Supper, I guess," Jen said. Part of her wanted to stay right where she was, sitting on that bed with Nick; part of her wanted to fold herself into his arms, and never let go, wanted him to hold her until all of this went away, to fall asleep wrapped around him and wake up safe and warm in her own bed. But the more practical side of her prevailed; they had been given a job, and they would have to do it, no matter how difficult, how painful, how awkward it might be. And besides, the spooks were watching; if they didn't like what they saw they could make life very difficult for Jen and Nick. When she'd first signed up to work with them she'd been green and itching for experience; now she was a senior member of the homicide squad, with the most coveted job on the force, with the best team she could have asked for, with a clear path to advancement, with _Nick._ The spooks could take it all away, if she crossed them. If she fumbled this job, she wouldn't even be able to get a post writing parking tickets.

"Sounds good," Nick said, and with a groan he heaved himself upright. For a moment Jen looked up at him, his sweet face, his expression wary, and weary. They'd been up all night, furiously studying, quizzing each other on the finer points of their backstories and Hartono's operation, and they'd been busy all day, in and out of briefings, and the adrenaline caused by the phone call to Hartono had faded in to exhaustion. His hand twitched down by his side, as if he meant to reach out to her but had thought better of it, and so Jen sighed and rose to her feet, led them both out of the bedroom and back to the kitchen.

"What are the chances there's anything to eat in here?" Nick asked quietly as they went. He was trying to be lighthearted, she knew, trying to make her smile, for even a wry chuckle would be preferable to the grim tension that had settled upon them both. That was his way, always trying to make her comfortable, trying to make her happy, trying to make things better. Her mind drifted back to the Sydney house, to the pergola he'd built just for her, just because he didn't want her nose to burn in the sun. There were so many memories, a lifetime's worth of memories crammed into thirteen months when he'd held her, protected her, changed her whole life with his quiet, steady care, and they closed in on her as she found herself in the kitchen with him, Jen reaching to open the fridge while he stood close, watching. It was hardly the first time they'd found themselves sharing a meal since he'd wandered back into her life, but everything was _different_ , now. They were being observed, and the possible threat to their lives felt more imminent now, now that the risk Hartono knew the truth of them was greater. They couldn't be Nick and Jen in this place, comfortable and quiet with one another, closer than perhaps two colleagues ought to be but protected by their careful choices and their ironclad reputations as the two wet blankets of the team. But at the same time it was hard to be Trish and Wesley, who touched each other without hesitation, called each other sweetheart even when they were alone, cuddled together on the sofa in front of a footie match. How could she allow herself such familiarity with him now, knowing that when this was over he wouldn't disappear, but would return with her to a life where no matter how badly she wanted him she could never have him?

"Not good," Jen said quietly as she swung open the refrigerator and discovered it was completely empty.

"Damn," Nick said, but he was grinning when she looked over her shoulder at him. "We'll just have to go to the shops tomorrow."

"Just like the old days," Jen murmured, closing the useless fridge. On their first full day in the Sydney house they'd gone to the shops together and bought everything they needed to decorate their home, and purchased every kind of food imaginable on SIS's dime, quietly talking about meals and their woeful culinary skills as they browsed through the grocery store. It wouldn't be like that this time; McAllister had told them in no uncertain terms that they were only to buy essentials with the company credit card, and Jen knew already what foods Nick liked, what he didn't.

"Can we have your lemon chicken tomorrow?" Nick asked, casual and comfortable as if it was just another day. He'd started rummaging through the drawers, searching for takeaway menus.

 _If you'll make me banana pancakes,_ Jen thought, but the words wouldn't leave her lips. She loved his banana pancakes, and if they were going to be stuck here she wanted him to make them for her, but asking for them felt like giving in, somehow. Admitting that they were stuck here, acknowledging everything that had gone before, felt like a capitulation to the inevitable. It also felt remarkably like flirting, and the boundaries between them were shifting so rapidly she could hardly find her way through. Maybe it would best to keep her distance, she thought. Maybe if she kept her guard up, and didn't stumble too close to intimacy with him, she'd survive this with her heart and their friendship still intact.

Behind her Nick gave a triumphant little cry, and emerged from the drawer he'd been rooting through with a stack of papers in his hands.

"Chinese?" he asked, glancing through the paltry offerings.

"Yeah," Jen agreed. She didn't bother giving him her order; he knew what she liked. In a moment he'd pulled the mobile back out of his pocket, and dialed the number, and a rueful smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she listened to him rattle off the list of their favorite dishes. She'd taught him how to use chopsticks, too. Before. That was something Trish had done for Wesley, something none of Jen and Nick's friends knew about, but it was Jen's memory, and a fond one.

"Be here in half an hour," Nick said to her when the call was through, tucking his mobile in his pocket and dropping the Chinese menu on the counter.

"Half an hour," Jen repeated, looking around their shitty little house. There were no books on the shelves, not even a bloody TV. What were they supposed to do for half an hour? Sit on the shitty sofa in the shitty sitting room and talk about the weather?

"Hey," Nick said, reaching out and brushing his fingertips against her arm. Jen jumped as if he'd burned her, and he frowned. "You all right?"

"It's a lot to process," she said, shrugging. That was, she thought, the understatement of the century.

"Yeah," Nick agreed heavily.

It was too much, really. The silence of that cold house, the terrible, threatening blandness of the furniture reminding Jen that this time around she and Nick weren't going to be given the star treatment, but were instead under immense pressure to deliver results _now,_ driven by people who could not have cared less about them or their safety, the fact that _this_ time she had not signed up for this job but had instead been forced into against her will, the knowledge that _Nick_ was with her, not a handsome, agreeable stranger but her best friend in the whole world, a man she could have loved, if things had been different, the thousand memories swirling through her mind; it was more than _a lot._ It was overwhelming, and she hardly knew what to say, or even if she ought to bother at all.

"At least there's a radio," Nick said, gesturing toward the kitchen counter. He fiddled with the nobs for a second, scanned through static and a few terrible pop songs until he found something quiet and bearable.

"That's better," he said, satisfied. It was strange, Jen thought, that he felt the need to fill the silence now; it had never bothered him before.

"It's going to be ok, Jen," he said then, very quietly, and suddenly she understood. He hadn't turned on the music for his own sake; he'd done it to cover the sound of his voice, to give them a moment's privacy from the spooks. Slowly he approached her, stopped so close by her side that they were almost touching, and hung his head low by her cheek.

"We've done this before, and we'll do it again. I've got you."

What Jen wanted more than anything else in that moment was to hold him; her hands itched to reach out to him, but she held herself back, remembering the promise she'd made to herself only minutes before, to keep him at arm's length. There didn't seem to be any other choice, but her resolve was fading as quickly as it had risen; they were alone, and she was scared, and Nick was just _there._

"This is a nightmare," she whispered to him, closing her eyes so that she didn't have to see the worry flickering across his face. It was _the_ nightmare, as far as she was concerned, ripped out of the life she'd built for herself, stripped of her independence, flung back into chaos, forced to share her home, her bed, her life with Nick, _indefinitely,_ while not being allowed to touch him, to love him, as she dearly longed to do. The only thing worse than having him so close would be to lose him completely, and somehow she felt herself in danger of suffering from both.

"Hey," he said, letting his arm brush hers. "It's going to be all right. It wasn't all bad, was it?"

She looked up at him sharply, and as she did her eyes caught his, and held, and she drowned, lost in a sea of longing, an ocean of memories. No, it hadn't all been bad. There had been that beautiful, terrible kiss on Hartono's yacht, there had been the moment their resolve finally shattered and Nick took her in his arms for the first time, their bodies twining together, rocking her to her very core. There had been every time after that, every breathless moment they stole for themselves, greedy and hungry for one another. All the gifts, all the quiet Saturday afternoons, all the whispered conversations in their bed, and there had been that day, her birthday, when he had taken her in his arms, and danced her round the kitchen, and her heart had swelled full of love in her chest.

"No," she agreed breathlessly. "It wasn't all bad."

That was what he had been waiting for, she knew. From the moment he'd stumbled across her path in Matt's kitchen he had been waiting to hear her say that, to say that the moments they'd shared, the way he touched her, kissed her, loved her, mattered to her, that it wasn't all some fever dream she was desperate to forget. He had been waiting, as always, for her to step into the moment with him, to bring the two halves of their lives back together, to acknowledge that everything they had done as Trish and Wesley they had also done as Nick and Jen. She didn't need such reassurances from him; one look in his eyes told her exactly how much it had meant to him. The same as it was for her; it meant everything.

"Dance with me," Nick said softly, holding out his hand to her.

She should have said _no._ She should have walked away, stuck to her guns, kept him at arms' length. But she couldn't. He was too handsome, too sweet, too gentle, and she wanted him too badly. To take his hand now would be to step off into madness with him, but they had fallen so far already, and if she was going to plummet to her doom she wanted to hold his hand on the way down.

In silence she accepted his hand, let him pull her in close. This time there was no hesitation; she pressed herself as close to him as she could get, rested her head on his shoulder, felt the warmth of him as his free arm wrapped around her back, and sighed. It was not the first time they'd danced, not even the first time they'd danced in a kitchen, but this moment was something special, and they both knew it. Their hearts whispered to one another, in voices too soft for ears to hear, acknowledging that truth so long kept buried. She needed him, as he needed her; they had neither of them forgotten what it was, to be with one another, and they both wanted it so badly now they could not keep their distance, no matter the promises Jen had tried to make to herself.

 _We're in trouble,_ Jen thought, but the solid breadth of Nick's chest pressed to hers reassured her somewhat. Whatever happened with the operation, everything between them had changed. There would be no going back from this, but he had made her a promise once, and she knew he meant to keep it. _I'll be your net, and you be mine._ They were falling hard and fast, but they would catch one another. They always did.


	36. Chapter 36

_18 March 2005_

Trish was shaking. Nick could feel it where their bodies were pressed hard together in the backseat of Adbul Supomo's car. For a moment he considered reaching out to her, taking her hand in his, whispering some reassurance, but Abdul's gaze kept flickering to them in the rearview mirror, and he didn't think Trish would really be able to hear him, at any rate. Her eyes looked strangely distant, as if she had gone somewhere far away in her mind.

"You're doing great," Abdul said.

Trish shuddered, and Nick choked back a miserable little laugh. If this was _great,_ he didn't want to know what _terrible_ looked like.

"It's not ideal-"

A strangled sound left Trish's lips, her eyes snapping forward to stare at the back of Abdul's head incredulously. _Not ideal;_ that was surely the understatement of the century.

"I mean, it's tragic," Abdul corrected himself half-heartedly. "But you're both all right, and the way you handle this will prove to Hartono that he can trust you."

By _the way you handle this_ Abdul meant they weren't going to handle it at all, and Nick knew it. When no police came sniffing round the dockyards, when no news stories about the murder of two young men on the premises of Claybourne shipping came to light, when no one said anything at all, Hartono would know that Trish and Wesley were like him, cold, and calculating, and less interested in human lives than in lining their own pockets.

What _had_ happened was this; in an attempt to catch Hartono out a trap of sorts had been laid for him. Trish and Wesley had agreed to meet Hartono in person for the unloading of his latest shipment. It had been decided that Trish and Wesley would not wear wires, as Hartono was a clever man, and insisted on certain precautions, including cursory pat-downs, prior to any interactions. In an effort to record him accepting the cargo, taking responsibility for it, SIS had carefully wired both the inside of his container and the exteriors of several surrounding containers on the dockyard, mics and cameras providing a perfect view of the scene. The plan was easy; the Claybournes would meet Hartono, take him to the container, let him look around, have him sign some paperwork, and leave him to direct the unloading of his assets. The cameras would do all the hard work, and the following day SIS would bring the full force of their might down upon Muhammad Hartono, and any of his associates they could find.

It was a _remarkably_ simple plan, and Nick had wondered why they hadn't tried it months before. It had seemed to him they could have saved themselves rather a lot of time if only they'd done this sooner. Now, though, he knew better.

What had happened at the dockyard had been anything but simple. Hartono hadn't shown; he'd sent Mr. Prakoso in his stead. That had thrown both Trish and Nick, for they did not know why Hartono hadn't come himself or what to make of this change of plan, but they had gamely gathered up two of their employees - both SIS plants - and led Prakoso to the container. The SIS boys - Davis and Howard - had thrown open the doors of the container while Mr. Prakoso stood next to Trish and Wesley, silent as a grave. Anxiety had nipped along Nick's spine but he did his best to remain calm, to smile, to give no outward sign of his distress. The boys opened the doors, walked away to stand behind Nick, Nick stepped forward, intent on leading Mr. Prakoso into the container, and then suddenly, sharply, with no warning whatsoever, a hail of bullets had rained down around him. Reflexively Nick caught hold of Trish, dragged her down to the ground and sheltered her head against his chest, but there was no need; the shooting stopped as quickly as it had started. The two SIS boys were dead, their blood sprayed across Trish and Nick both, their bodies limp in the dirt. Mr. Prakoso stood to the side, clean and apparently unfazed.

 _I believe you may have a problem, Mr. Claybourne,_ he'd said, eerily calm as ever. Nick had looked up at him incredulously, still holding his trembling wife tight to his chest, but he swallowed down the curses he longed to spew. Somewhere above them, perhaps perched atop the same containers SIS had wired the night before, at least two gunmen were hiding, their weapons no doubt still trained on the Claybournes. The shooting had not surprised Prakoso; he'd been expecting it, must have been instrumental in orchestrating it. Nick's very life had hung on his next words, and so he chose them carefully. _I believe you may be right,_ he'd said, rising gingerly to his feet, helping Trish to stand.

 _I'll leave you to deal with it,_ Mr. Prakoso had told him, and then he'd walked away, whistling.

So Nick had dealt with it, had rung Abdul, who worked as a sort of fixer for Hartono, and a team of lads in nondescript clothing had come and carried the dead men away. Mindful of the fact that they might still be under surveillance Trish and Wesley hardly spoke to each other, and did not say much at all to Abdul, just watched in silence as the scene was cleared, and then left in Abdul's car.

"Why?" Trish asked raggedly, snapping Nick's attention back to the present. It was a good question; why had those boys been killed? _How_ had it even happened? With SIS watching every inch of the dockyards Nick couldn't fathom how the shooters had been able to slip in - and out again - undetected. Obviously Hartono knew something was up, but he hadn't taken out the Claybournes, had chosen instead to kill their employees. Had he learned that those two men were working for SIS, or was he only sending a message? Would he be waiting for them when they got home?

"Who knows," Abdul said, remarkably nonchalant about the whole thing. "If he suspected you were informing on him, he'd have killed you. He showed you that up front. I think your cover is intact. When he sees that you don't make a fuss about this little hiccup, he may be willing to tell you more. Just keep your heads down."

Trish barked out a laugh, brittle and angry, and Nick just bit his tongue, watching the streets of Sydney slide by outside the window. _Christ_ , this never should have happened. Had they grown too comfortable meeting with Hartono? Were there precautions they'd failed to take, a failure that had cost two men their lives? It had been remarkably risky, in retrospect, agreeing to go to the veritable warren of containers in the dark, with the wrong man, without any backup besides two unarmed men who'd promptly been murdered. It was easy to lose your way in the dockyards, and the containers made easy cover for unsavory characters, as the evening's events had proved. The cameras and mics had been trained on Hartono's container, but as Nick wracked his brain he could not recall surveillance having been put in place further out. They'd been sitting ducks, and now Davis and Howard had paid the price for their laxity in blood.

"Home again," Abdul said as he pulled the car to a stop outside their house.

"Thanks, mate," Nick said. Trish was already out of the car, making a beeline for the front door.

"Give us a call in the morning," Abdul told him. "We may know more in a few hours."

"Right," Nick said, and then he stepped out into the night.

By the time he reached the front door Trish was already inside. Nick kicked his shoes off in the foyer, closed the door, locked it, and sighed. Everything had gone pear shaped; Abdul could insist that their cover was intact all he wanted, but Nick knew better. Clearly Hartono suspected _something_ was afoot, and Nick had no idea how much longer they could keep this charade going. He'd half expected to find someone waiting for them in the house, but Trish had turned on all the lights as she went, and nothing was amiss.

 _I've got to talk to her,_ Nick thought glumly. They had to come up with some kind of a plan, had to decide how they were going to handle Hartono, what they were going to do if they found themselves in a jam. More than that, though, he needed to hear her voice, needed to see for himself that she was well, that this ordeal would not break her. He needed to reassure her, longed to hold her, longed to hear her gentle voice, reminding him that the world was not as evil as it seemed, that there was still a piece of goodness worth holding on to. She was, he thought, the only good thing left in his life.

He followed the trail of lights down the corridor to their bedroom, but she was nowhere in sight. The door to the en suite was closed, and he could see light shining out from beneath it; she must have gone straight there, he thought, to strip out of her blood stained clothes and wash away the grime of the night. Perhaps it would have been wiser to give her some space, to allow her a few minutes to pull herself together, but Nick was keyed up, anxious and restless and desperate to talk to her, and so he did not hesitate. He marched across the room and tried the bathroom door, and upon finding it unlocked he walked right in.

Inside he found Trish; she'd closed the lid of the toilet and sat down on top of it, buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking, but if she were weeping no sound of it escaped her. There were no microphones, no cameras, no eyes and ears trained on them in the bathroom, but Nick locked the door behind him and turned the shower on for good measure, hoping that the noise of the water would drown out the sound of their voices. With that done he turned his attention back to Trish, went to her and knelt down on the floor at her feet.

"Hey," he said, resting his hands on her knees. Above him Trish drew in a ragged breath, dropped her hands away from her face to settle atop his own, her eyes miserable and yet full of fire as she looked at him.

"I want to kill him," she breathed, her voice low and rough with rage. That surprised him; Nick had been expecting fear, and grief, but he had not been expecting her anger.

"They didn't deserve this," she hissed. "And he could have...he could have _killed_ you."

"I'm right here, Trish," he reminded her. "If he wanted me dead, I would be."

"It was so _close_ ," she whispered miserably. She was right about that; Davis and Howard had been standing a few feet behind Nick and Trish. The fact that neither of them had been injured suddenly struck him as rather remarkable; whoever Hartono had doing his dirty work, they must have been expert marksmen. If a single one of those bullets had traveled a hair's breadth off course, Nick or Trish - or both of them - could have been laid out in the dirt just like their colleagues. That was something he'd need to address with SIS, and he told himself he'd mention it to Abdul when they spoke in the morning. He had more important things to worry about at present.

"We're all right, Trish," he said. The words sounded foolish to his own ears; both their shirts were stained brown with dried blood, and there was dirt and worse in Trish's perfect blonde hair. They were terrified, and lonely, and angry, and right on the very edge of disaster; they were, both of them, the farthest thing in the world from _all right._

"I can't do this without you," she whispered to him softly, and then she reached for him, her fingers trailing through his hair around the curve of his ear, something tender and terrible in the gesture. "You've got blood on you," she observed, the pad of her thumb brushing against the shell of his ear as if trying to clean away the mess she'd no doubt found there.

"So do you." There was no need to be so quiet, with the shower covering their voices, but the moment was still, and tense, and Nick did not dare speak above a whisper, lest he shatter them both. Her concern for him spoke to his heart, stirred the yearning he always felt for her into something greater, something fiercer, something he could hardly contain. That she needed him as badly as he needed her, that she had been so moved by his brush with danger that she apparently paid no mind to her own, that she could look at him the way she did now, her grey eyes round and bright and begging for something he so desperately longed to give her, set him on fire with need of her. The warmth of her legs beneath his hands was enticing, but it was not _enough;_ he needed her, all of her, needed her close and soft and in his arms.

She had reached for him, and so he took that as permission, reached for her and brushed her hair back from her face, and she pressed her cheek against his palm, seeking that contact even as he sought to give it to her. One of his hands cradling her face, one hand resting on her thigh, he was so close to her it left him aching, and yet they were not as close he wished to be.

"Your shirt will be ruined," she said.

"Good riddance," Nick said. He hated those bloody shirts with their garish patterns and pearlsnap buttons. He'd give anything to have his own clothes, his own life back, to be able to live freely, to love her, if she'd let him. The shirt was sticking unpleasantly to the skin of his back and the reminder that he carried the blood of those two boys upon his own body made his belly churn with disgust, and he reached for it suddenly, desperate to be ride of it, tugged until enough of the buttons came undone for him to rip the shirt from his back and fling it into the corner of the bathroom where it landed in a heap, a silent accusation of his own foolishness.

Trish's eyes widened slightly as she took in the view of his bare chest, and it was only then that he realized he might have made a terrible mistake, stripping off like that in front of her. All alone, with no one to see, no one to hear, Nick was kneeling half naked at her feet, and maybe she could feel it, too, the undeniable pull of gravity that drew him closer and closer to her. It was Trish who'd pulled them back from the brink before; would she find the strength to put an end to this madness now, before they lost themselves completely? It would have to be her, he knew, for Nick himself was gone already, overwhelmed and drowning in his longing for her, his affection for her, his desperate desire to touch her, and find some piece of his own humanity restored in the gentle brush of her hands against his skin. Once more he rested his hands on her knees, drew in a deep breath, and waited to see what she might do.


	37. Chapter 37

_18 March 2005_

Jen felt as if she'd gone mad, as if the world as she knew it had shattered like glass, a thousand brilliant shards slicing her skin and sparkling bright as diamonds all around her. Everything was sharp, and tense, and terrible, every inch of her body prickling with electricity, with heat, with a terrible urge to run. Horror had come for them, but before that she'd felt almost safe, standing with Wesley, watching as the container was opened. SIS had placed surveillance around the container and they'd organized a dozen such rendezvous in the past, and after the first memorable flash of violence Hartono had not shown any further interest in bloodshed. The appearance of Mr. Prakoso was surprising, but not sufficient to put Jen and her Wesley off the plan entirely; it was not the first time he'd stood in Hartono's stead. But then everything had gone to shit, and she was left reeling and shaking.

She _knew_ those boys, Davis and Howard. She'd talked with them, laughed with them, broken bread with them, cut their paychecks every fortnight. One minute they'd been fine, walking, talking, breathing, and the next the world had exploded, and they were dead in the dirt, and Wesley was holding her tight against his chest, doing his best to protect her. The speed with which he'd reacted surprised her; she'd spent time in uniform before transferring to Fraud, but she'd never actually been involved in any kind of a firefight. Never felt so small, so vulnerable, never had the blood of men she knew sprayed across her back, never watched as silent men picked up their bodies and carried them off, never to be seen again. Nothing like this had _ever_ happened in Fraud and she found herself wondering for the thousandth time what the bloody hell she was doing, working for SIS, caught up in intrigue and murder. She had not been prepared for this, and maybe that was shortsighted on her part, but the SIS trainers had spent a great deal more time talking about logistics than about her personal safety. Had they know how great the danger would be? They must have done, and sent her in anyway, green as grass and unprepared. Why? Because she looked the part? Because she was the only one foolish enough to agree?

Wesley, though, he'd reacted differently. Like a man who'd been trained, who'd been in that situation before. Maybe he had been a soldier, once; maybe that accounted for his quick reflexes, his instinct to protect her. Maybe some other, more primal motivation had driven him to seek to shelter her, and leave himself exposed. He'd held her like she was precious, then, and now he knelt in front of her, bare from the waist up, watching her with pleading eyes.

They were on dangerous ground, and she knew it. Adrenaline had left her weak and restless, itching for something to do, some way to occupy her hands, her mind, to distract her thoughts from the memory of that terrible violence, some way to remind herself that she was _alive,_ and not alone. Grief had left her heartsick and desperate for connection, and Wesley must have felt the same, she thought, for as he knelt in front of her he kept his hands resting on her knees, as if he could not bear to stop touching her. _I'll be your net, and you be mine;_ they'd promised to catch each other, if they fell, but what were they supposed to do when they were both of them falling, spiraling into madness, plummeting towards the abyss? He'd only cast off his shirt because it was soaked with blood and worse, but it had left the full of expanse of his chest, his broad shoulders, his strong arms on display. She could see the outline of every muscle, hanging heavy on his bones, the light dusting of dark hair around his nipples, trailing down the center of his stomach to disappear beneath the waistband of his trousers. There was just so bloody _much_ of him, strong and hard and powerful, and yet gentle, too, with her, seeking to protect her, offering her the shelter she dearly longed to accept from him. Jen's own shoulder blades itched uncomfortably beneath the stiff weight of her blouse. She wanted it off her, wanted to fling it aside, wanted to put as much distance as she could between herself and the events of this terrible night. But if she did such a thing now, when they were alone in the only room in the house without cameras, when he was already half-naked and watching her like he wanted nothing in the world more than to kiss her, she knew they would not be able to stop themselves. The potential for disaster hung heavy in the air; she wanted him, he wanted her, no one was watching, they had come so close to losing one another entirely, and she was tired of playing by SIS's rules. Tired of the way they ran her life, tired of their lies, tired of the cockups and the endless promises that the job was nearly done, while eternity stretched out before her. How much longer would they be here, trapped in this make-believe life? How much longer could she deny him, deny herself? And what was the point, anyway, when they could die at any moment? She'd much rather die knowing what it was like to hold him.

The second that thought occurred to her a shudder traveled through her body, and her resolve shattered. With trembling hands she wrenched at her own blouse, tugged it free from her smart skirt and all but ripped it off her back, casting it aside to land atop Wesley's in the corner. His eyes went wide as dinner plates, taking in the sight of her in just her skirt and her plain bra, her chest heaving. Tears welled up in her eyes, unbidden; she was so bloody angry, and so bloody scared, and she didn't know what to do, or what he'd think, now that she was bare, too, and she didn't-

"Hey," Wesley said, very softly. He reached for her, cradled her cheek in his palm, forced her to look into his eyes, full of worry, full of affection, for _her_. "I've got you," he told her earnestly.

It was the only reassurance he would ever be able to give her, but it was enough. It was enough, to know that he was there, that he would always be there, that no matter how bad things got she could always cling to him. Jen took one slow, ragged breath, and reached for him, ran her fingers softly through his hair, felt the softness of it, felt the warmth that traveled up the length of her arm from that briefest of connections.

"I'm so tired," she whispered, wondering if he knew what she meant, that she wasn't talking about physical exhaustion, but was instead weary of carrying this burden, trying to be someone she wasn't. "I don't want to think any more." _I don't want to worry and I don't want to be afraid and I don't want to remember all the reasons we're not allowed to do this._

"What do you want?" he asked her. The shower was loud, but he was close, and his soft voice carried easily to her ears, and no further. Even now, in this moment when they were a hair's breadth from falling apart, when she had all but told him that she was ready to throw caution to the wind, still he wanted to hear her say it, wanted to know for a certainty that she was ready, and willing. She loved him for it, for his hesitation, for his care, for the way he held his own desires in check just long enough to be sure that hers ran the same course.

"I want you," she whispered, her hands catching in his hair.

She gave a gentle tug, and he came forward at once, his hands sliding along her thighs as he lifted his chin, and she bowed her head, and in the next moment their lips brushed together, softly, fleetingly. Jen didn't want soft, or gentle; she wanted him to overwhelm her, to take her over, to make her _forget_ , but he did no such thing. He pulled back from her, his breaths short and sharp, let their foreheads rest together for a moment, their noses slotting into place against one another, lips almost touching.

"I don't want you to regret this," he said.

Nothing could have made her more sure of her decision than hearing those words from his lips, than seeing how much he longed to make her happy, how desperate he was not to hurt her. He worried that she'd regret it, and things would feel different in the morning, but she knew in that moment that whether she came to regret it or not he never would.

"I'll regret it more if you don't kiss me again," she told him, and she felt him smile against her mouth, and knew then that the battle was over. In the next heartbeat he was kissing her again, eagerly, hungrily, his hands sliding over her thighs while her own remained rooted in his hair, holding him tight to her. This position must have been hell on his back, but he did not protest, or try to rush things along; he just kissed her, as if kisses alone would be enough to satisfy him, his lips soft and sure, his tongue tangling gently with her own. There was something tender in his kiss that left tears spilling down her cheeks, but she could not stop now, not for anything. Desperation began to well up inside her; her hands traveled down to the broad expanse of his shoulders, testing the heat and the hardness of the muscle there, and when she turned her nails against his skin he groaned, and hauled them both upright.

The shower was still running, hot and fierce, and steam had begun to gather above their heads, fogging up the mirror over their vast vanity, but Jen paid it no mind. The only thing that mattered to her, in that moment, was _him,_ the way he kissed her, the way his hands reached for the clasp of her bra. Taking that as permission, then, Jen reached for his belt, and they began to tug at one another, peeling off the last remnants of their clothes between wet, hasty kisses until at last they were both of them bare, and panting. It was in her mind to look at him, to study him, the heavy, hairy muscles of his thighs, the weight of his cock, the points of his hip, but Wesley never gave her the chance; the moment they were both naked he caught hold of her bum and hoisted her up to sit on the counter, claiming her lips once more in a desperate kiss while he stepped up close between her thighs.

There was no mistaking his intent, and Jen locked her legs around his hips at once, pulled him tight against her and ground her tender heat against his hardening cock, wrapping her arms around his back so that she could feel the delicious slide of her breasts against his chest. Their faces were almost on the same level, for once, and it was easier to kiss him, like this, to suck on his tongue and make him groan, to nip at his lip and earn the edge of his teeth against hers in response. Deftly Wesley snaked one hand between them, caught hold of her breast, palming her gently, and she broke their kiss with a gasp, drew his head against her neck so he could kiss her, so she could drown in the sensation of being fully, completely enveloped by him.

" _Christ,_ you feel good," he moaned softly against her neck, and Jen ground herself that much more firmly against him, the friction between them slowly awakening her own desire, teasing out the first rush of her wetness and promising so much more.

"So do you," she told him. "You feel so good, sweetheart."

And he did, _oh,_ but he did. She could feel the heavy weight of his cock against her, nestled against her clit and sending shockwaves running through her, could feel the scrape of his work-hardened palm against her tender nipple, could feel the heat of his mouth at her neck, the warm, smooth skin of his back soft as silk beneath her hands, raspy with hair just above the rise of his ass. He felt a hell of a lot better than _good;_ holding him like this, feeling him touch her like this, felt like relief, like the reminder she'd been looking for, the reminder of the life that still flowed in her veins, the reminder of the connection they shared. She was not alone, but more than that, she had _him,_ this sweet, steady man whose kindness had so radically altered her life over the course of the last few months that she could no longer remember who she had been without him, and never wanted to again.

His teeth scraped gently against her pulse point and she shivered, eager, hungry. Perhaps sensing that a long, slow shag was not in the offing Wesley kept hold of her breast and rested his forehead against her shoulder as he watched his free hand slide between them, watched his fingertips brush through the curls at her center, exploring her softly, reverently, seeing for himself the effect he was having on her. Jen couldn't see, with the bulk of his body in her way, but she pressed her cheek against the softness of his hair and whined, softly, as his fingertips brushed against her clit.

"There?" he asked her, taking his direction from her panting breaths.

"More," she whispered against his ear.

Wesley had always been quite good at taking orders, and now was no different. He set to with a will, pressed his fingers hard against her, giving her the friction she needed to send her spiraling off into bliss. Soft, needy sounds of want left her lips, though she did her best to bite them back, mindful that the sound of the shower alone would not be sufficient to drown out a cry. What was happening in this place was meant for them alone, was not to be shared with the eyes and ears of SIS. Onward he went, building her higher and higher, panting against her skin while she mewled and shivered beneath the weight of him, doing her best to follow the movement of his hand with her hips. Close, she was getting closer by the second, need winding tighter and tighter within her, her thighs trembling with the strain of holding him so tightly.

"Want," she gasped. It was too much effort to both keep her voice down and form full sentences at once, with his hands on her like that, tight at breast and hard at her clit. "Want you inside me," she tried again, and he exhaled against her shoulder, a shiver running through his body at the thought. " _Please."_

"Yeah," he grunted, taking his hand away from her. "Yeah."

The sudden loss of his touch was nearly enough to make her weep, nevermind that she was the one who'd asked for a change in their position; the strength of those clever fingers had left her on the brink of pleasure, and her body rebelled against any further delay. Her heart knew better, though, and in a moment he proved her right.

Wesley took a step back from her, his eyes so dark and full of want she could not help but reach for him, pull him back to her for another kiss. The taste of him, the wet heat of his mouth, the softness of his lips, left her almost drunk with need, and she ran her palms over his back, desperate to touch him everywhere. His hands moved, too; with one he caught hold of his own cock, and she broke their kiss with a gasp to look down at him, to see the length of him hard in his hand, thicker, longer, harder, than she'd imagined and enough to send another rush of wet desire flooding through her, but with his other hand he reached for her, caught a handful of her ass and dragged her to the very edge of the countertop.

"Are you sure you-"

"I want you," she cut him off at once, her hands travelling lower on his back to clutch at the firm swell of his ass, drawing him towards her. " _Please_ , god, I want-"

He cut her off with a bruising kiss, which was all for the good, for even as she spoke he surged forward, the head of his cock sliding between her slippery folds, and they groaned together, each of them swallowing the sounds the other made while slowly, slowly they fell into one another. Ever the gentleman he didn't push too hard, not at first; he rested, for a moment, barely inside her, panting against her lips, waiting. Frustrated and eager Jen bucked against him, used her hold on his ass to urge him closer, and he laughed, drew his hips back and plunged forward again, a little deeper this time, enough to make her mewl. Again and again he slowly withdrew, slowly surged forward, let her feel him, every inch of him, deeper, and deeper still, until she was clawing at him, shivering, until she forgot everything but the way it felt to hold him inside her. Driven by her rising desperation the movement of his hips increased, and Jen just clung to him, pressed her face hard against his neck to muffle the sound of her breathless moans as he rolled into her again and again, the movement of his hips steady, and powerful, the way he always was, encouraging her to madness.

"Don't stop," she gasped against his skin. He'd showed no signs of stopping but she said it anyway, needing him to know how _good_ it was, how much she wanted him.

"Never, sweetheart," he panted back at her, and then he loosed the fury of his passion in earnest, and she was lost.

With his hand still clutching her ass hard enough to bruise he held her in place, and set a feverish pace, pounding into her there against the counter while she trembled and shook beneath him. The sweat-slicked skin of his back provided her no purchase and so she flung her hands out behind her, caught them against the foggy mirror and held them there for leverage. The change in angle between them drew a strangled groan from both their lips, and Wesley bowed his head at once, placed wet, heavy kisses across her heaving breasts, breathed the heat of his desire across her tender nipples while his cock drove relentlessly into her, the angle of their bodies catching her clit in just the right way, left stars exploding behind her eyelids.

"Gonna," she managed to gasp.

"Come for me," he answered. From anyone else those words might have sounded crass, or possessive, or smug, but she knew him, and she knew better. He didn't seek to own her, or stoke his own ego with her pleasure. He wanted to bring her to bliss because that was what he _did,_ sought to make her happy, to protect her, to care for her, always, and now was no different. Though his cock was hard and heavy and soaked with their combined desire he wanted her to find her pleasure first, put her before himself, the way he always did, and when he scraped his teeth across her nipple she shuddered, and fell apart, holding her breath and biting her lip to stifle the sound of her crying out for him. Bliss burned through every inch of her, hot and wet and brilliant, left her weak and shuddering, her mind all but blank and at peace, for the first time in months.

" _Fuck,_ sweetheart," he groaned, the tempo of his hips stuttering as her inner muscles fluttered around his length, drew him in deeper and deeper.

"Come on," she whispered, relieved and oversensitive and full of yearning for him. He had done this thing for her, had heard her pleas and given her everything she wanted, and she wanted to do the same for him in turn. "Come on, sweetheart," she urged him breathlessly.

Wesley knew very well that she was on the pill, as they'd collected her medication more than once on a Saturday afternoon trip to the shops, and so when she asked for him he did not hesitate. He thrust into the last spasms of her release like a man possessed, and she shifted, wrapped her arms around him and held him tight until at last he was tumbling, too, groaning against her shoulder and spilling himself inside her.


	38. Chapter 38

_2 September 2010_

Nick lay stiff as a board, flat on his back with his arms crossed over his chest. The bed was too small, smaller than the one they'd shared the first go around; he'd settled himself as far over on his side of the bed as he could without risking a tumble to the floor, but his shoulder was still brushing Jen's. Jen, who was equally tense, staring up at the ceiling and breathing slowly, deeply, in an exaggerated sort of way that let him know she was anxious and trying to calm herself down. They'd left the light on; they'd still not heard from Hartono yet, and neither of them would be ready to sleep until they did. If they ever did; the phone call from Wesley Claybourne might have spooked him, left him suspicious. Hell, if Nick were in his shoes he'd have suspicions aplenty. An old acquaintance turning up out of the blue, after years in prison, right when Hartono was on the verge of some big operation; the whole thing stank, and it didn't sit well with Nick. The first go round SIS had been patient, had given Nick and Jen the time and the space to earn Hartono's trust, to infiltrate his business, to be unobtrusive, to be careful. This time, though, everything was rushed. They were in too big a hurry, and they were making mistakes. The house, for one; it was rundown and the furnishings were pitiful, and there was no budget for buying the odds and ends that would make it seem like a home. And then there was that phone call, SIS breathing down their necks to reach out to Hartono as soon as possible, to push him for a meet instead of waiting for him to come to them as they'd always done in the past. McAllister's impatience was making him restless, and Nick and Jen were caught in the middle, their lives in the hands of a man they wouldn't dare trust.

The mobile chirped and Nick reached for it automatically, reading out the message for the benefit of the spooks who were no doubt watching them at that very moment while Jen laid her head on the pillow next to his, close enough to read the message for herself.

"Will meet tomorrow at 11:00. H."

"Is that it?" Jen demanded, her voice brittle with nerves. "No other details?"

"Short and to the point," Nick told her as he set the mobile aside. He wanted to say more, to offer her reassurances, but he knew the root of their problems at present was a man who might very well have been listening to their every word, and he chose caution over comfort, however much he wished he could do otherwise. "He hasn't changed."

"Is he coming with a deal or with a gun?"

Nick didn't answer her; he couldn't. Somehow he felt as if he and Jen knew better than this new crop of spooks how to handle Hartono; these men were convinced Hartono would respond to Wesley's urging, that he wouldn't do the dirty work himself, but Nick knew better. Nick had been there, when Hartono shot the informant in the container himself, and he had seen Hartono withdraw from pushy businessmen more times than he could count. _Christ,_ didn't they read the notes from the first operation? Hartono was wary and dangerous, and SIS was bumbling around like this was their first time dealing with him.

Maybe it left a sour taste in Jen's mouth, too; she leaned over and switched off the lamp, and plunged them both into darkness. The darkness was more comfortable, for Nick; SIS couldn't see his lips moving, if he whispered to Jen then. He could close his eyes, and pretend he was somewhere else, in her bed across town, lying together at the end of a shitty day, the way they'd done so many times before. Only if he were in her bed he'd be more comfortable, and no one would be watching, and he wouldn't hesitate to roll over, to pull her into his arms. If he were in her bed she might have let him. Back in their own lives they were, he thought, right on the verge of _something;_ she'd let him take her hand, dance with her in some shitty bar where no one knew their names, sighed and let him pull her in closer. Maybe he should have pushed for more, then. Maybe she'd wanted him to.

He couldn't now, though. Now when everything was fractious and tense, when they'd been ripped out of their own lives and thrust back into the Claybournes' skin. The first time around they'd fallen together slowly, found comfort with one another, and either SIS didn't care about what they got up to when they disappeared into the bathroom together or they figured it was good for their cover. Things couldn't be more different, now. There was no time to ease into it, and he was fairly certain McAllister would skin them both alive, tank their careers and worse, if they didn't perform exactly the way he wanted them to. There was a sense of impending disaster hanging over their heads that hadn't been there, before. Maybe because they'd chosen it, the first time, and this time it had been thrust upon them, and they'd had no say in the matter. Maybe because now he knew her, cared for her, loved her, even, maybe, and could not bear the thought of her coming to harm.

In the darkness he could still hear her breathing, unsteadily now, and so he ventured a quiet question.

"You ok?" he asked as softly as he could.

She turned to look at him, but all he could see was the whites of her eyes, watching him. What did she see when she looked at him now? His fear, his concern for her, the way he longed, with everything he had, to keep her safe? Whatever it was, she didn't look for long; she turned her head away, stared up at the ceiling again.

"I think I can do this," she said on a sigh, her words as soft as his own had been.

 _Christ,_ he wanted to touch her. It was killing him to see her so afraid, and him unable to do anything about it. The first time around she'd been green and out of her depth; she'd not been a copper as long as he had, then, hadn't worked on Homicide, yet, hadn't had to fire her gun or duck from an incoming bullet. SIS had kept her in the dark, unaware of the prize asset they'd landed for themselves, and she'd been grumpy about finding herself on the back foot. Now, though, he'd spent a year working with her in Homicide, and he'd seen how her confidence had grown, how she'd become one of the best coppers he'd ever known. She wasn't green, any more; she was steadier, now, and stronger, the best partner he'd ever had. Maybe finding herself back in Trish Claybourne's clothes had brought back those old doubts, he thought. Maybe she was worried she was no better off now than she had been the first time. That wasn't true, and Nick knew it, but somehow he didn't think she'd thank him for saying it.

She was too stiff, too tense; she wouldn't be drifting off to sleep any time soon, he thought as he settled his head on the pillows, close enough to her to smell the soft scent of her shampoo. Maybe he _should_ say something. But what reassurance could he offer her? This operation seemed doomed to end in calamity, and he wouldn't lie to her about that. SIS was watching, and he couldn't distract her with thoughts of what they'd do when they got back home; he didn't know when - or _if -_ they'd ever make it back home, and besides, maybe this whole thing would sour her on him, remind her that they weren't meant to be anything other than colleagues, would make her want to run as far and as fast from these memories as she could. If only he knew what she wanted, maybe he could have given it to her, but there were too many questions, and not enough answers.

There was only one thing he could say to her, and so he shifted his head just a little bit closer to her, unwound his arms from across his chest and let his fingertips brush against the back of her hand.

"Hey," he whispered. "I've got you."

He could give her nothing more than that, that promise he had made to her so long before, tried so hard to keep. Whatever happened, with this operation and after, whatever she needed, he would be there for her, to support her, to protect her, always. That woman owned him now, he knew; maybe she always had done.

"I can't do this without you," she whispered back, turning her hand over and catching hold of his, their fingers winding together beneath the duvet. It was telling, he thought, that she'd say such a thing to him; she must have been worried, as he was, that they were in for trouble, and she must have been terrified, as he was, that one or the other of them might be lost in the bargain. It was too terrible to contemplate; after everything they'd been through, their first marriage, their time apart, their shocking reunion, every moment of every day that had passed since, they were now, more than ever, a matched set. They belonged with one another, Trish and Wesley, Nick and Jen, and their names were meant to be said together.

"I'm right here, sweetheart," he breathed. _And I always will be._

She sniffled, just a little, and he realized then that she was crying. If it hadn't been for the cameras he would have hauled her hard against him, let her bury her face in his neck, would have kissed her, told her he loved her. No maybes, this time; the touch of her hand, and the way his heart cried out in response to it, settled that for him, once and for all. He _loved_ her, and all he wanted was a life where he could do so freely, without fear. A sudden urge to rip off the duvet, take her by the hand, and run straight out the door washed over him; what he wouldn't give, to put all this shit behind them. To find some place quiet where they could just _be_ , not coppers or spooks or anything but _Nick and Jen._

 _Maybe one day_ , he tried to tell himself. _Maybe when this is over…_

Then what? He kept coming back to that same question. Even if they survived this job unscathed there were other considerations. Their jobs for one; they couldn't shag and work together at the same time, and he would never allow himself to be the reason Jen lost Homicide. And there was Jen herself to consider; she'd let him hold her, let him sleep beside her, let him draw her into his arms and dance her round the kitchen, but back in their own lives, in their own homes, was he really what she wanted? Or was it only that she was comfortable with him, still trying to work out where Trish and Wesley stopped, and Nick and Jen began? Nick had found the answer to that question for himself already; as far as he was concerned, there was no _Trish and Wesley._ All of it, every touch, every quiet word, every dance, every kiss, had always been _Nick and Jen,_ his heart reaching out for hers. But did she feel the same? Could she ever?

He didn't know, not really. Before now he'd been ready to bide his time, to wait and see what decision Jen might come to, if any. But if this operation went tits up, he might lose her for good, and then what would become of him?

 _Everything is changing,_ he thought. The ground was shifting beneath his feet, sand receding into a shadowy sea. He felt himself lost, stumbling, hurtling towards _something_ , but he did not know, yet, what that something might be. He could only pray that it was _her_ ; Jen was his touchstone, his dearest friend, the only person in the world who mattered to him, and he would not, could lose her, not now.

Lying there, breathing in the scent of her, her hand warm and soft in his, the sound of her unsteady breaths filling his ears, he tried, like hell, to hold on. To this moment, this connection, this feeling of her beside him, but she had always been a comfort to him, and in the comfort of her his eyes closed, and sleep stole slowly over him.


	39. Chapter 39

_18 March 2005_

Nick came back to himself slowly; the last few minutes felt like nothing so much as a dream, and were it not for the weakness in his knees and the warmth of her wrapped around him he would have been certain he was dreaming still. It didn't seem possible, somehow, that he should be _here_ , with her legs tight around his hips, his face resting in the tender crook of her neck, her hands drifting slowly, gently through his hair. A moment's madness had spiraled out of control, and now that his rational mind began to reassert itself he was left full of dread. Dread at the thought of having to uncouple himself from her, having to leave that place and once more submit to the constant surveillance of SIS, dread at the thought of having to leave her for good, when this thing was done, never knowing her name or where to find her or even if she wanted him to, but most of all, dread at the thought that she might regret this, that she might withdraw from him, that she would insist they could never do _this_ again. There was nothing Nick wanted more than to hold her, to be near her, to touch her satin soft skin and hear her sigh, to make the affection, the desire, the... _whatever_ it was that he felt for her into something real, and lasting, something more than a moment's madness. If she did not feel the same, if she _regretted_ , he feared her disappointment might break him clean in two.

"Your hair is filthy," she whispered, her lips close by his temple, and he smiled, kissed her neck and lifted his head to look down on her beautiful face once more. There was no regret in her eyes, not yet; she just looked tired, and sad, but she smiled, too, when she saw his face.

"So is yours," he answered, running his hand gently over her head. "And I'm afraid there's not much hot water left."

Her legs still cradled him close, and her hands drifted down across his shoulders, and in the warmth of her he found peace; she was not rushing to distance herself from him, and he took that as a hopeful sign indeed.

"Maybe we should share?" she suggested softly, shyly.

It was exactly what he wanted, just now, a few more quiet moments spent with her, and he was grateful she'd been the one to bring it up; if she didn't want to be near him she wouldn't have asked him to linger, and he knew it.

"Yeah," he said, running his hands over her soft, bare thighs. "That sounds like a good idea to me."

They parted from one another carefully, his hands ghosting over her legs as he stepped back, as at last he withdrew from her, and she sighed and let her legs dangle against the counter for a moment. There was a reddish mark at the base of her neck left by the heat of his mouth, but it was not particularly big or particularly dark; it would fade quickly, he thought, and no one would be any the wiser. No one would ever see her like this, hair mussed, skin flushed from the steam and the heat they'd generated between them, her soft, pale pink nipples, her soft stomach, soft thighs, all of her soft, and warm, and etched on his memory, now. In silence he held his hand out to her, and she took it, let him help her down off the counter, lead her to the shower. Once inside he let her step beneath the spray, watched her tilt her head back as the water washed over her, blood and worse sluicing off her body to swirl around their feet. She looked...beautiful, and weary, and he wanted only to touch her, and so he reached for her shampoo himself.

"Let me?" he asked her quietly, his voice barely audible over the water. Trish smiled at him and turned her back to him, let the water wash down her front and gave him access to her soft blonde hair.

It was the sort of thing a man might do for his wife, Nick thought, after a long day, the sort of thing lovers did for one another. There was a tenderness to the moment, a fragility he felt so keenly; every breath was precious, in this moment when they stood so close to ruin. Carefully he ran his fingers through her hair, mindful not to tug, not to hurt her, feeling the softness of it between his fingers, brushing against her scalp, massaging her gently and listening to her sigh over the rush of the water. Perhaps he should have spoken, should have told her how much she meant to him, how beautiful it was, being held by her, should have talked about what came next and what they were going to do and whether this kind of intimacy would be in the cards come the morning, but he didn't. The words were too heavy, and the bliss of the moment would not survive beneath their weight, and so he only worked his fingers through her hair until he supposed he'd wasted enough time, and urged her to turn around once more.

When she did, tilting her head back, exposing the elegant column of her throat to his hungry gaze, he let his hands drift over her body, her shoulders, her breasts, let his palms soak in the heat of her, greedy for every touch, every second he could spend with her, a clock ticking loudly somewhere in the back of his mind. Time was passing; their luck with the hot water was bound to run out any second, but more than that, his time with her would come to an end one day, too. Perhaps sooner rather than later; now that those two SIS operatives had been killed the spooks would be out for blood, and if they had any sense at all they would recognize the danger Nick and Trish were in, and push for results. Maybe another setup, just like this one but with better surveillance, maybe something else; their plans were a mystery to him, but this was always meant to _end_ , and when it did she would vanish, and then what would become of him?

With the last of the shampoo rinsed clean from her hair Nick reached for a washcloth and her soap, and took her once more into his arms. Gently, carefully he scrubbed every inch of her skin, cleaned the last of himself out from between her legs and felt her shiver in his arms, ran his cloth over her breasts, her thighs, knelt at her feet, and looked up at her in wonder with her calves in his hands. Trish watched him in silence all the while, her bright, grey-blue eyes focused on his face, her hand on his shoulder, as if she, too, could not bear to be parted from him. Of the pair of them she was the more talkative; her mind was clever and sharp, and she liked to talk her way through any problem, liked to determine the possible outcomes and ward against disaster, was more prone to worry than he. If anything should have given her cause to worry, he thought, surely _this_ would be top of the list, but she did not speak. Perhaps she felt, as he did, that it would be unfair, cruel, even, to classify their coming together as a _problem._ It was too beautiful for that.

Then again, perhaps she was just too tired, and the worries would come in the morning.

Slowly he rose, let her lean back against his chest while the water ran over their bodies, washed away the soap suds and the grime of this terrible day.

"This is nice," she whispered, turning her head to kiss his neck. She had decided to speak after all, but she was not admonishing him, and Nick was grateful for that, too.

"You're beautiful," he answered, running his hands over her stomach.

"Charmer," she said, and he could hear the laughter in her voice. "Here, let me." She reached for his shampoo, apparently intending to return the favor, and he grinned, thinking about how she'd have to lift herself up on her tiptoes to reach his hair, thinking how lovely it was that she should want to touch him, relieved to know she cared for him, perhaps as much as he cared for her. It was not to be, however, for she had no sooner turned to face him than the hot water gave out and she shrieked and jumped towards him in distress.

Nick laughed as he spun them around, put himself between her body and the suddenly frigid water.

"Go on," he said, brushing a kiss against her forehead. "I'll finish up in here, no need for you to freeze on my account."

Trish was already shivering, but she looked as disappointed as he felt. "All right," she agreed, crossing her arms tight across her breasts. "But...I just…"

Nick watched her curiously, wondering what it was she was trying to say while she floundered in front of him, but in the end she revealed her intentions by lifting herself up onto her toes and kissing him once, gently.

"Thank you," she whispered, and then she was stepping out of the water, leaving Nick to finish his cold shower alone.

He worked as quickly as he could, cursing the bloody hot water heater, listening to her towel off, the door opening and closing behind her. This was probably for the best, anyway; if they'd exited the bathroom together surely SIS would have known something was up. This way he could claim he'd simply sat on the toilet and spoken to her while she showered, that they'd switched places when she was done, that nothing untoward had happened. It was a lie, but lying was their business, now.

As soon as he could he shut the water off and stepped shivering from the shower. Their filthy clothes were still piled up in the corner and Nick left them right where they were, dried himself off and then wrapped the towel around his waist and made his way out into the bedroom. The light was out and Trish was already in bed, her back turned towards his bureau, and so he let the towel drop unselfconsciously, tugged on a clean pair of trunks and slid, at last, into bed behind her.

It was easy to roll himself in close to her, to drape his arm over her waist beneath the duvet, pull her in until her back was flush to his chest, and she let him, let the warm swell of her ass settle against his spent cock, let their legs tangle together, out of sight of the cameras. Most nights they fell asleep like this anyway; it would be nothing new for the SIS watchers. They were practiced at this, now, hiding their hands from the cameras, whispering so softly no one could hear them; it was a strange thing to become accustomed to, Nick thought, and he hated how familiar they had grown with obfuscation.

"You ok?" he asked her very quietly, his face buried in her soft, still-damp hair. Beneath the duvet Trish was tracing her fingers over the back of his hand, her touch gentle and comforting.

"No," she whispered in a voice very close to tears, and his heart sank. He could hardly expect a different answer, but having just made furious love to her in the bathroom he was so hoping she had found peace in his arms, as he had found in hers, and it hurt him to think he'd brought her only more grief.

"I'm scared, and I'm tired," she said. "And you...I don't want to let you go, Wes. But I have to. And now…"

And now it would be so much harder, he knew. He tightened his grip upon her waist, brushed her hair aside with his nose until he found the warm skin of her neck, and planted a gentle kiss there. Now that he knew the taste of her, the sound of her, the warmth of her, the glorious rapture of her, now that he had discovered this woman who so amazed and delighted him at every turn, now that he had found this soul so like his own, so dear to him that she had become his home and his hope, the thought of leaving her was more unbearable than it had ever been.

"I know," he told her gently. "But I'm here, sweetheart. I'm right here. You can rest now."

Just now, just for tonight, he didn't want to worry about what came next. He didn't want to worry about how they would hide their growing closeness from the cameras, or whether he'd ever get the chance to hold her again, or what would become of them when they were forced to part. For now, for this one night, he only wanted to sleep, safe and warm, with her.

"Sleep, Trish," he said, and kissed her again, and she sighed and relaxed back against him, and they both drifted into dreams, together.


	40. Chapter 40

_3 September 2010_

The slamming of a car door on the street outside their bedroom window woke Jen abruptly the next morning. She'd been jumpy and on edge from the moment she saw Abdul lying in a pool of blood in his own kitchen, and the nerves were with her still; rather than a slow, languorous rise up from dreams she was immediately awake, eyes open, taking in every detail of the situation where she found herself. Outside the car started, backed slowly out of next door's drive, the sun just beginning to rise beyond the curtains. Inside all was still, and peaceful, and quiet. She was warm in bed, tucked beneath Nick's arm.

It was hardly the first time she'd woken like this, his body solid and steady at her back, his breath washing sweetly over the curve of her neck, his arm holding her tight to him, shielding her from troubles. It was a situation so familiar to her that it nearly brought tears to her eyes, now; through all the many long nights of their first marriage he had held her, comforted her, sheltered her, his proximity the only cure for her sleeplessness. Since then they had shared a handful of blissful, quiet nights, holding on to one another, trying so hard to keep the world at bay. There was a sweetness, a longing in the way he reached for her that echoed the quiet yearning of her own heart, but she could not answer him, now, when they were once more under constant surveillance, when it seemed they had so much more to lose now than they ever had before. McAllister had already threatened to have them both fired and thrown in prison if they crossed him, and somehow she knew he would make good on that threat, given the opportunity.

She could hardly bear it, feeling Nick touch her, knowing she could not accept anything more than this scant comfort from him, no matter how much more she might have wanted to take, knowing that the men who watched them now were far more ruthless and far less forgiving than the ones they'd known before, wondering what the spooks had seen and what conclusions they had drawn from it. It was torture, being so near to him, and yet not being able to touch him, to let her fingertips brush against his face, to tell him of all the fears and all the hopes she carried within her heart, and so she rolled away from him quickly, rising to her feet and snatching her cardigan from the end of the bed, wrapping it tightly around her as she padded silently from the room. The cardigan was hardly so warm as he had been, but its embrace was the only one she could accept at present.

The windows in the sitting room afforded a fine view of the sunrise, and so it was there Jen went, watching the sky turning pink and gold over the treetops.

 _Indefinitely,_ that's what the spooks said when she asked how long they'd be stuck in this house. Last time _indefinitely_ had meant thirteen months. It had cost Nick his spot on Homicide, and it was only the timing of Duncan's injury that had given Jen a chance to sneak out of Fraud; disappearing for over a year had made her an undesirable candidate for any other department, and Wolfie had only taken her on secondment, a short posting that was meant to be temporary, though she'd worked like hell to change that. What would happen this time, should SIS need them for months on end? Who would look after her house? Would she even have a job to come back to?

 _Maybe they'll kick me back to Traffic,_ she thought glumly. It sounded like a death sentence, but it might also afford her the opportunity to sit the Sergeant's exam; she'd been enjoying the work in Homicide too much to think about moving on, but if the choice were taken out of her hands, that would change things.

_And if we're not on Homicide any more, the next time Nick comes round I won't have to throw him out of bed in the morning._

That thought sank its teeth into her, tendrils of hope and fear winding through her heart like some great, choking vine. They had been skirting the edge of propriety, lately, dancing in bars, Jen holding him while he cried, her eyes turning to him in moments of need and wishing he could be more than a mate. So long as they worked together, her wishes wouldn't count for much, but if their professional circumstances changed, _everything_ would change. Would Nick's love be consolation enough, for the loss of her prestigious career? Was it even on offer? He cared for her, she knew he did, but was it enough to take such a risk? That was what she'd never known, might not ever know; without Trish and Wesley, would Nick and Jen ever be enough? If things had been different, she might have liked to find out, but everything was too muddled, now. To take a plunge into romance, only to find they weren't suited to one another, might cost her his friendship, and she could not bear the thought of a life without him by her side. _Maybe,_ she thought, _maybe that's all you need to know._

The soft sound of a footfall behind her heralded his arrival, and Jen grimaced to herself. Obviously her attempts at discretion had been for naught; she'd woken him anyway, and he'd come searching for her. That was something about this life she hadn't missed; there was never any privacy. She never had a single moment to herself, for even when he wasn't with her the spooks were still watching. The walls seemed to close in around her, as if there was not enough air in the room to sustain them, Nick and Jen and the beast of Jen's fears.

"Morning," he said softly as he came to a stop beside her, arms crossed over his chest. He hadn't bothered to dress before he'd come looking for her, was wearing only his vest and his trunks, and the sight of his long legs, his arms heavy with muscle, his broad chest, left her feeling light-headed; she could hardly look at him, for the sight of him only served to remind her how much she longed for him. He was a beautiful man, her Nick, with a beautiful body and a beautiful soul, gentle and steady and everything she'd ever wanted.

"Morning," she answered half-heartedly. She wished like hell it wasn't morning, wished like hell she didn't have to face another day of this. Another day of keeping Nick at arm's length, another day of danger, another day of doubt and fear. She would have gone back to bed right then, if she could have.

"You got to sleep in the end," he said. His voice was low and gruff, as if he were still half asleep himself, hardly speaking above a whisper as if that would be sufficient to keep the spooks from overhearing. It was such a typically Nick thing to say; he'd been worried about her, and was seeking assurance now that she was well.

Jen hummed; "Finally," she said. Yes, she had, eventually, ceased her tossing and turning and fallen asleep, but not until he wrapped his arm around her, not until the lullaby of his steady breathing finally calmed the riot of her thoughts.

Nick sighed, turned his body so he could lean towards her, but Jen kept her gaze focused resolutely out the window. If she looked at him now she wasn't certain she could stop herself from begging for him.

"I thought it was going to be easier this time," Nick said softly. "Last time we hardly knew each other."

The last time they had been awkward around one another, had argued and slept in separate beds until they got used to sharing their space, until the threats from outside the house drove them together. It had been hard, the last time, to learn to trust someone new. Maybe Nick had thought it would be easier sharing his space with someone he already trusted, someone he had already worked with, someone he already knew he could live with, but Jen had known better.

"It's different this time," she said, very quietly. This time he wasn't just some random bloke assigned to watch her back; this time he was _Nick,_ the most important person in her whole world, the one person she wanted most and could never have. She'd known from the moment SIS roped them back in that this would be hell, even if Nick was only just coming to terms with it.

He hummed in agreement, and she fell silent, staring at her toes. This time, she wanted him to hold her, and knew he could not. This time they couldn't sneak into the bathroom for a quick shag, SIS turning a blind eye for the sake of the operation. This time they didn't have Abdul, cleaning up their messes and offering reassurances. This time she wouldn't leave him when the job was through; whatever happened in this house would echo through their lives back home, might shatter them both entirely.

Beside her Nick shifted, his head swaying towards her, close, now; it was a familiar movement, the first step in any overture from him, and the pounding of Jen's heart quickened. What she knew now, what she hadn't known then, was the way he looked when he wanted to kiss her, the way his every longing would shine in his eyes, the way he'd put himself within her reach and let her come to him, considerate, always, never forcing her. In their own lives he'd never kissed her once, but in the Claybourne's he'd kissed her more times than she could count. Now they were Trish and Wesley once again, but they were Nick and Jen, too; anything that passed between them now would be _theirs_ , not excused by the operation, would be the desperate clamoring of their own two hearts.

For a moment he was quiet, deliberating with himself, and Jen looked up at him at last, saw the anguish and the need on his face. It was nearly enough to leave her breathless; if she had doubted, before this moment, whether Nick wanted her, she knew better now. She could see that want in his eyes, in the set of his mouth, in the way his body curved around hers, and the memories washed over her hard and fast, memories of dancing with Nick in the pub, memories of the way he'd reached for her on Hartono's yacht, the embers of passion between them catching fire in a heartbeat. This was one such a moment, she could feel it in her bones, a moment when Nick could not hide from his own desires, his desire for _her,_ not for comfort or a warm body or Trish, but for _her._

"You know how I feel about you," he said, his jaw working as he struggled to contain himself.

 _Do I know?_ She wondered. She thought about that night when he'd first come back, sitting next to him on the sofa, thought about the night after the vigilante killing, with Nick in her arms, thought about every word, every laugh, every quiet after hours drink, and suddenly it occurred to her that she _did_ know. There was no point in wondering whether their friendship would survive a romance, if Nick would even want it; this thing between them had been a romance from the very first, six years in the making. There was no point in wondering if Nick could ever love her; he already did.

And she loved him; _Christ,_ but she loved him. Loved his warmth, loved his laugh, loved his hands, loved his heart, loved the way he held her when she slept, the way he backed her every play, the way any activity, from cooking dinner to chasing down murder suspects, was better with him beside her. She _loved_ him, every inch of him, every piece of him, and this operation might take him from her, and how much would she hate herself if she let this end without ever telling him the truth? He had taken a monumental risk, a catastrophic risk, in saying those words to her, and he would not have done it if he was not certain, if he did not love her so deeply that he could no longer keep his silence. If Nick was willing to be so brave, if he was so moved by his love of her that he had found the strength to speak - when speaking about his feelings had never, ever been his strong suit - then surely, she thought, surely she could do the same. He loved her, she loved him, the world was ending, and nothing would ever be the same. Whatever happened with the operation, whether it ended in a day or a month or a year, whether they had jobs to come back to after this or not, whether they died or not, he had breathed life into their love, and she could not, would not, be the one to snuff it out again.

Slowly she reached for him, her palm coming to rest against his cheek, her thumb brushing the swell of his lip as her heart burst within her chest. This was it, she knew, this was the turning point, the one moment that would change everything - that had _already_ changed everything - between them, forever. And she wanted it, wanted it so badly that she ached with it. His eyes were locked on her face and he was just _there_ , and she lifted herself up -

And the sitting room suddenly exploded with the sound of shouting voices, their one chance at happiness shattered by visceral, overwhelming fear, black-garbed men bursting into their quiet moment to tear them apart as Jen screamed for him, for her Nick, for her love, for her salvation.


	41. Chapter 41

_20 March 2005_

"You can't be serious," Jen said, shocked to her core by the very suggestion.

"Can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs," Abdul answered with a shrug.

Jen wanted to spit in his face, but Wesley's steady presence beside her restrained her, somewhat.

They were sitting together, the three of them, in wicker chairs beneath the pergola Wesley had built for her, beer bottles in their hands and the sun high overhead on a fine Sunday afternoon. Abdul often visited them at home; he worked with Hartono, and no one questioned his connection to the Claybourne's. Particularly not today; as he'd flung himself into his chair he'd blithely announced that Hartono had sent him to check up on them, to see how they were handling the deaths at the dockyards. The answer, though he did not know it yet, was that they weren't handling it well at all. Jen hadn't slept a wink the night before, too worried about the future and the mess SIS had made of everything to even close her eyes. She'd only slept on Friday because she'd been too wrung out, too exhausted after the cataclysmic way she and Wesley had fallen together in the bathroom. That was something else Abdul didn't know.

"Thanks for confirming that we're expendable to you lot," Jen grumbled.

They were discussing SIS's plans for catching Hartono out. At present, SIS was preparing another setup at the dockyard just like the one that had claimed the lives of two of their agents a bare two days before, and Jen's mind was reeling at their blase attitude towards their personal safety.

"The brass are getting antsy," Abdul told her breezily. "The op has dragged on too long, and they want to see results."

"You're in his inner circle. Can't you give them what they need?" Jen demanded.

"Nah. Everything I got's circumstantial. He won't use a computer and I've got no paper trail. We need his signature on something, and we need it to be something big. There's talk of live cargo coming in."

"You know he's trafficking people and you're just going to let it happen?" Wesley asked. So far he'd been quiet, the way he always was, but Jen could see from the tightness in his jaw, the set of his shoulders, that he was as angry and perplexed as she was. She wondered if Abdul had noticed the tension in him at all, or if it had only revealed itself to her because of the way she had come to know this man, every inch of him, almost as well as she knew herself.

"It's all innuendo at present," Abdul said. "We can't prove it. And if we get the people here, and take them into custody, we can help them. If we move prematurely they may get snatched up by some other thug before we can stop it."

"So that's the plan?" Jen demanded. "We wait for him to ship a container full of frightened people from Indonesia all the way to Australia, have him sign for it, and snatch him up then?"

"You got a better one?"

Abdul's expression was practically smug, and Jen crossed her arms over her chest, angry and affronted. No, she didn't have a plan, not yet. It was too soon after the shooting at the dockyard; her thoughts scattered like autumn leaves, directionless and frantic.

"The shell companies," Wesley said.

"What about them?"

That was the thing about Wesley; he never said more than was needed. Abdul couldn't follow his train of thought, but Jen could.

"He's got three of them. One operates in Indonesia, shipping cheap crap for his two dollar shops. One of them runs the guns, and one of them we still haven't figured out. Maybe the third one is the one he'll use for the people. They all have fake names, fake offices, different bank accounts. There's no connection between them. But if we could make one…"

"We need bank statements," Wesley said. "Cross check the financials on all three and run them against the cargo logs. That's the whole point of having us in Claybourne Shipping, right? To gain access to the records? Let us see them-"

"We've got people for that," Abdul cut him off. "We've got your cargo logs. We can pull financials but it's a risk. The last time we did that it turned out he had an inside man at the bank, and the employee vanished along with all the records."

"Can you fake a tax audit?" Jen suggested.

"Might put him off shipping in the live cargo, and then we'll be in strife."

It seemed like Abdul had an answer for everything, but Jen didn't quite trust his glib explanations. She was certain he wasn't telling them everything, but she had no way to prove it.

"Look," Abdul said, leaning towards Jen, his forearms resting loosely on his knees. "I know you're jumpy, and I know it's frustrating. We're frustrated, too. We've been after this prick for years. He's a slippery one. It isn't your job to solve this. You go where we tell you, you get the information we need, and everything will work out grand."

With that he slugged back the last of his beer, set his bottle down on the table, and rose to his feet.

"I'll be in touch," he said, and without another word he turned and left them, disappearing through the gate in the back of the fence.

"We are so royally fucked," Jen breathed, watching him go.

"Yeah," Wesley said, ignoring Abdul's departure in favor of watching Jen with a curious expression on his face. "Nothing we can do about it now. Come on, we need to go to the shops, get something for dinner."

Slowly he unfolded himself from his chair, held his hand out to her. Jen took it gladly, for she knew as well as he did that their kitchen was already stocked, and they had no need for a shopping trip. The house was bugged, but so too was the garden, microphones strung up with the fairy lights Wesley had hung on the fence. They could not speak freely here, but they could say whatever they wanted in the car, and he had just neatly given them an excuse to spend a few precious minutes unmonitored. Jen was more grateful for that than she could say.

* * *

"We learned our lessons last time," Wesley reminded her.

He'd driven them, not to the shops, but to a park in a far corner of the city, parked the car beneath a copse of trees, far from prying eyes. The sun was setting, and there was hardly anyone about as the city settled itself for dinner, prepared to face another week of work.

"Hartono did, too," she pointed out. "He knew something was up, and he didn't show. What happens if he pulls his business from Claybourne Shipping?"

"Then Frank and Marcy are going to be in for it," Wesley said.

"Wes-"

"We'll find out tomorrow," he said. "And we'll deal with that when it comes. I don't want to talk about Hartono any more."

"What do you want to talk about, then?" she asked him, turning her head to watch his face in the glow of the sunset. Her heart began to race, as she looked at him, fear of an altogether different sort taking root in her heart.

They had not discussed it yet, what had happened in the bathroom. They hadn't talked about the passionate clinch they'd shared on the yacht, or the way he'd danced her round the kitchen on her birthday, or the reverent, desperate kisses that had spiraled into so much more on Friday night. The reason for that was partly practical - they could hardly talk openly at home, and if they kept slipping off into the bathroom together the spooks might notice something was amiss - but it was partly cowardice, on Jen's part. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know, really, how she felt about him, about what they'd done, didn't know what needed to happen next, what he expected from her. Hell, she didn't know what she expected from _him._

"I'm sorry," he said, and her whole body tensed. He was _sorry?_ Sorry for kissing her, sorry for shagging her like the world was ending, sorry for the tender way he'd touched her, after? Did he regret it already? Did he think they'd made a mistake? It had been beautiful, she thought, what they'd shared together, had brought her peace and comfort at a time when neither seemed within her grasp, and to think he _regretted_ it made her feel used, somehow. _Maybe it didn't mean anything to him at all,_ she thought.

"Wait," he said, as if he'd read her very thoughts. "I didn't mean...Christ, Trish, I'm not sorry I kissed you. I'm not sorry I touched you. It was...you were…you mean so much to me. I'm just sorry I put you in this position. I've made things difficult for you, and I shouldn't have let myself get carried away."

"You're an idiot," she told him, relief washing over her in waves as she reached for his hand. He smiled when she touched him, and she did, too, smiled to see the way his fingers locked with hers, his hand broad and strong and warm, wrapped around her own.

"Maybe it was a bad idea," she said. "But it's been a long time coming." The memory of him, hot and hard and hungry beneath her as she straddled his lap on the yacht, had been haunting her for months. It felt inevitable, somehow, that they'd wind up here. Trapped in close quarters with a kind, handsome man, with no one else to confide in, trust and forced intimacy and genuine affection had blurred into something else entirely, and Jen couldn't bring herself to regret it. She should have done, she knew; they were taking a huge risk, defying the spooks, a risk that could have disastrous consequences for both their futures. It was hard to be worried about her future, though, about her life after this, when she wasn't even sure she'd make it out of this operation alive. One day at a time, that was the only way she could live, and in that moment she could not imagine living without him.

"You mean a lot to me, too," she told him shyly. The words felt somewhat awkward in her mouth, but he'd said them first, and it seemed the only avenue available to her, the only way she could express how she felt for him, how she needed him, yearned for him, how grateful she was to have him by her side.

The words seemed too small to encompass what had just passed between them; terror and longing had broken the dam of affection between them, and they had both admitted, finally, to some feeling for one another, and he was holding her hand, and yet she still didn't know, really, where they ought to go from here. Whatever might be brewing between them, they could not _date_ , like other people, couldn't see each other when it pleased them, shag when it pleased them, laugh about work over plates of takeout. Their situation was bizarre, and untenable.

"Hey," he said, his eyes drifting worriedly over her face. "We'll figure it out, yeah?"

 _What's there to figure out?_ She thought. She cared for him; she could not have him. They wanted each other; they could not touch each other, lest they be observed. A ticking clock hung just above their heads, counting down to the moment of their inevitable separation, and when that time came he would leave her, and she would never, ever see him again.

"Yeah," she said. There was nothing else to say. There was no point in treading over the same ground again and again, asking the same questions expecting different answers. Every second they spent alone was stolen time, and they would soon run out of it. It wasn't a lie, exactly, her agreement. They _would_ figure it out; she had already. She would take what she could, what few precious moments she could have with him, and then it would end, and that would be that.

"Come here," he said, tugging her hand gently, and Jen went, clambered awkwardly out of the passenger's seat and into his arms. The moment she was in his lap he slid the seat backwards, let her settle more fully against him, his hands coming to rest on her hips while her own reached for his face, fingertips stroking gently against his skin while he looked at her in wonder.

"Whatever happens," he said in a low voice, "I'm glad I found you."

"Me, too," she answered, and then she bowed her head, and kissed him.


	42. Chapter 42

_3 September 2010_

An uneasy silence settled over Nick and Jen on the ride back to their safehouse. They sat together in the back of a spook taxi, neither of them speaking, Jen looking out the window and refusing to meet his gaze, while Nick couldn't seem to keep his eyes off her. _Christ,_ everything had gone to shit. He'd damn near kissed her that morning, in full view of the bloody spooks, only to be caught up in a madcap scheme designed to help them both focus on the job at hand. To focus on what they were meant to be doing, and not on each other, not on the strange, swirling sensation of need that had been growing between them from the moment they'd been plunged back into this world.

 _Get your head in the game,_ Nick told himself. McAllister might have been a prick but he was right about one thing; Nick and Jen weren't acting like spooks. He was too involved with her now, with _her,_ with _Jen_ and not with _Trish,_ and he was finding it all but impossible to slide back into the legend. It had been easier when he didn't know her name; he couldn't call the wrong name by mistake, when the only name he knew was _Trish._ Now, though, when the spooks had come barreling into their home with guns drawn, _Jen_ was the name that left his lips, her own voice crying out raggedly for _Nick._ That was a good way to get themselves killed, forgetting who they were in the heat of the moment. He could agree with SIS's motives, if not their tactics.

The taxi dropped them off at home and they made their way up the drive together; Jen marched through the door and Nick followed behind her, rubbing at his temples. He could feel a headache coming on.

"Sweetheart," he said, softly, because he couldn't quite bring himself to call her _Trish,_ but he knew she couldn't be _Jen_ anymore, not under this roof.

"Assholes," she grumbled under her breath, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets in search of the tea things.

"They're just doing their jobs. We need to do ours."

Jen looked at him sharply, an accusation in her gaze, and Nick held his hands up in a gesture of defeat. He knew what she was admonishing him for; he'd been the one who followed her that morning, chased her when she left their bed in search of a moment's privacy, whispered to her of his _feelings._ He had instigated that almost-clinch by the window, that almost-declaration of their fondness for one another, a fondness that the spooks thought made them both a liability. _I'll have both your jobs, and see that you do time in prison,_ McAllister had told them; if they didn't toe the line there would be hell to pay, but Nick had gone and pole-vaulted them both over that line on their first morning in the house.

"The rest of it can keep, yeah?" he said, very quietly, making his way across the kitchen to stand beside her at the sink, watching while the dusty kettle heated up.

Jen sighed, but he felt her knuckles brush against the back of his hand, and he took comfort from that touch. Surely, he thought, if she didn't want to revisit what had almost happened between them in the morning she wouldn't have touched him now.

"Yeah," she agreed.

That was all the reassurance he needed. She wasn't going to forget it, the words he'd spoken to her that morning, the way she'd reached for his face, the way they'd _almost..._ she wasn't going to forget it, and neither would he. God only knew how long they'd be stuck in this house, playing at happy families again, but when it was over they would return to their own lives, together. She wouldn't vanish; she'd be there when he woke up in a world that made sense, and they'd have a chance, then. A chance to say everything that needed saying, to reach for each other without doubt or fear. The wait would be hell, but he'd been waiting for her for years; he could wait a little longer.

* * *

"He knows," Jen murmured into the silence left by Hartono's departure.

"Maybe not," Nick answered, but his heart wasn't in it.

It had chilled him to the bone, seeing Hartono again. Those dead eyes, that deceptively calm voice, asking his questions so full of suspicion, brought to mind too many bad memories. If he really had been Wesley Claybourne, an ambitious man with his sights sets on making money and little else, he wouldn't have gone near Hartono with a ten foot pole, not after all these years, and he couldn't blame Hartono for being mistrusting Wesley and his _word_ now. The whole thing stank. He'd done his best to sell it, and Jen had played her part beautifully as always, but they were working with a shoddy script, and they both knew it.

"You get the feeling there's something else going on here?" Jen asked him quietly.

They were still sitting at the kitchen table, the newspapers strewn about in front of them. It wouldn't do to speak too plainly to her here; he had his reservations about the spooks' motives, but those same spooks were listening to their every word.

"There's always something else going on," he said. He reached out to cover her hand with his, to try to offer some reassurance, but as he did there came another knock on the door.

He and Jen were both on their feet in a moment, but he stepped in front of her, went to open the door himself. Another visitor so soon after Hartono's departure could only spell bad news. Mr. Prakoso had been killed in a raid years before, but no doubt Hartono had found a new associate to do his dirty work. It would have been the simplest solution, sending someone round to dispatch the Claybournes discreetly before they caused too much trouble for him. If Hartono had seen through their ruse, this might be the end of everything for them.

With his heart in his throat Nick slowly opened the door, trying to shield Jen from whatever waited on the other side, but it was just Ratcliffe, with a six pack of beer and more bad news.

* * *

Ratcliffe had given them an hour, and their time was almost up. He'd stuck around, drank their tea and tried to shoot the shit, but Jen saw straight through him. She knew what he was doing; the spooks didn't want to give Nick and Jen a chance to plot on their own, didn't want to give Jen a chance to talk Nick out of this madcap scheme. Going to see Hartono now, so soon after making contact with him, when he had not arranged a meeting nor invited Wesley to do the same, was tantamount to suicide. A man like Hartono didn't indulge people who buzzed around his head like gadflies; he smacked them down. Nick and Jen had learned that lesson long before, even if SIS hadn't. But the spooks had been adamant, and so had Nick; he was insisting on going it alone. It didn't take a genius to see why; he was protecting her, and the thought of it made Jen sick to her stomach. It wasn't fair, she thought, that Nick should have to fall on his sword just to keep her safe. It wasn't fair that they'd been put in this position, where every choice SIS made pushed them closer to calamity, risking everything that mattered to Jen, her heart, her future, her best friend in the world, in the process.

"It's all so rushed. We never moved this fast before," she said. Ostensibly she was making the bed, but that was just an excuse for the cameras, just a bit of theater to keep her in the same room with Nick while he readied himself to leave.

"Different people running things," Nick answered.

"Yeah. McAllister." She didn't have to say more than that; Nick knew why that name tasted like poison in her mouth.

"It's like we're working for him personally," Nick said, but Jen was hardly listening. There was a radio at the bedside and she turned it up, loud, and rushed across the room, reaching up to fuss with Nick's collar. The music gave her cover, and faffing with his clothes gave her an excuse to stand close enough to him to whisper. It was strange, how quickly the old tricks came back to her now.

"Something's wrong," she said, her voice tight and tense. Rushing the job, the attitude they were getting from the spooks, Ratcliffe babysitting them; it was starting to feel to Jen as if this operation was more of a rush than the last one, as if the spooks were less interested in results and more interested in timing. They'd been told that Hartono was planning something big, but the spooks had said they didn't know when. Jen wasn't so sure about that anymore. It was starting to feel like whatever it was, it was happening _now,_ and Nick was about to walk right into it.

"I'll meet Hartono," Nick said, his voice hardly more than a whisper. "I'll give him the message, and then I'll come back. End of story." He was standing with his forehead nearly touching hers, his hands brushing against her sides as he swore his promise to her. He meant it, she knew. After everything they'd been through, everything they'd become to one another, he wouldn't let anything keep him from her, not if he could help it. But it might not be within his power to save himself; the pieces were already in play, and he was just a pawn, caught up in someone else's game. Jen couldn't bear the thought of letting him go, especially not now. Not when she'd still not had the chance to kiss him, to tell him how much he meant to her, when they'd not had the chance to find out what they could really be together. The past year and more they'd spent getting to know one another had been the most beautiful gift, but she couldn't help feeling as if she'd wasted it, somehow. If only she'd opened her heart to him the moment he walked back into her life maybe everything would have been different; maybe they would be safe, now, and not stuck in this hell. She'd never know what could have been, and now she feared she'd never know what sort of future they could have had, either.

Before Jen could answer him Ratcliffe was interrupting, standing in the doorway and calling time on their last chance to be together.

"I'll see you soon," Nick said, and his voice was low and earnest. He meant it, she knew. He meant to come back to her. She could only pray he would.

He started to walk away from her, and something deep within Jen's chest seemed to snap. He had found his courage, that morning, had found a way to tell her how he cared for her, how much she meant to him, but she had been denied the chance to do the same. Now that he was leaving, off to meet an uncertain fate without Jen there to protect him, she could not let him go without making certain he knew that she felt as he did. That she _loved_ him, and always had done, and always would do, whatever happened next.

"Wait," she said, and he stopped in the doorway, turned back to look at her.

She couldn't say it outright, not with the spooks watching and Ratcliffe lingering in the corridor, but she and Nick had never needed words before, and they didn't need them now. One look was all it would take, all it had ever taken, and she knew it. In the doorway Nick looked at her, and she saw the understanding dawning in his eyes, saw the way his jaw tightened, his hands clenched as if he longed more than anything to reach out for her, but managed to hold himself back.

"I know," he said, and then he was gone.

Weak in the knees, the radio still blaring mindlessly in the corner, Jen sat herself down on the edge of the bed, and buried her face in her hands. They both knew, now. She knew he loved her, he knew she loved him, and this revelation had come too late to save them both, for they had just been torn apart by SIS. Those might very well be the last words he ever spoke to her, and as that thought occurred to her she began to weep, too terrified and overcome to hold the tears at bay a second longer.


	43. Chapter 43

_17 April 2005_

For a time he just held her, the pair of them panting and hopelessly tangled together, sweat-slicked skin sliding as he cradled her close. The car was hardly ideal for this sort of thing but they'd made it work, as best they could; Nick was stretched out across the back seat, his back propped up against the door, one leg flat on the floor, one leg bent along the seat, and she had made room for herself atop him, his glorious Trish. She must have been as exhausted as he was, for the moment he spilled himself inside her she'd collapsed against his chest, and there she remained, her breath warm at the base of his neck.

 _I could get used to this,_ he thought, his palm trailing across the satin softness of her bare back. To tell the truth, he'd adjusted to this new reality already, this life where she cared for him, as he did for her, where she'd welcome his touch, so long as no one was watching. It was beautiful, but it was dangerous, too; every time he kissed her he only found himself falling further and further under her spell, and he knew that the risk of being discovered was only growing. They'd been living in the city for months now, and Nick had learned his way around, found the places where they could most easily hide, not just from SIS, but from the rest of the world, too; he never would have been so careless as to strip her bare where anyone could see. Out here, in the secluded spot that had quickly become his favorite, there was no one but the trees and the birds to bear witness to their sins, and the trees kept their secrets well. He could only hope this safe haven would last.

"This is nice," Trish whispered, her lips brushing lightly against his skin. Nick hummed; it was a hell of a lot better than _nice,_ but he knew what she meant. The car was warm, and the radio was playing softly, and he was still going soft inside her, and they were, for the moment, both of them content. Just holding her felt like a gift, precious and rare beyond price. In the house he had to toe the line, keep his hands to himself, stop himself from giving voice to all the emotions that threatened to strangle him every time he looked at her, but out here, under the trees, he was, finally, free.

"I'd give anything to do this in a real bed," he told her, and he felt more than heard her answering laugh. In the beginning, when he'd finally found the courage to admit to his feelings for her, and she'd left him utterly shaken by revealing that she felt just as much, they'd agreed nothing more could happen in the house. At least, not regularly. SIS was bound to notice if they took to disappearing into the bathroom together, and neither of them wanted to answer questions about what they were getting up to in there. The bed was out, as well, as was the rest of the house; the cameras were trained on them twenty-four seven, and they couldn't risk demolishing their operation and their own lives, no matter how much they were both enjoying themselves. But having had a taste of one another, both of them knowing now that their feelings were returned, they were ravenous for more, and this was the solution they'd come to. They could steal away, for a little while, enjoy a moment's peace and a moment's privacy, so long as they came home with a bag of shopping to keep their cover intact. They couldn't do it too often, not every day, but they took the opportunity when they could, and enjoyed every second of it.

"It would be nice not to be on top, for once," she told him wryly, and it was his turn to laugh; they'd discovered early on that his legs were too long to allow for much creativity in the backseat, but they made it work. Made it work very well, in Nick's opinion, for he'd never enjoyed a woman as much as he enjoyed _her._ Everything about her delighted him; he was fucked in every possible way, and he knew it.

"You're doing great, sweetheart," he teased her, and in response she nipped lightly at his shoulder, silently chastising him for his cheek while he chuckled beneath her, his hands continuing their progress across her back.

"I've been thinking," he said.

"Why does that make me nervous?"

"No, seriously," he answered, and she shifted just a little, propped her chin up on his chest and looked up at him curiously. "Hartono's going out of town in a fortnight. We're not going with him. There won't be anything for us to do that weekend. I was thinking maybe we could take the company card, charter a boat of our own. We could take Frank and Marcy, pretend it's a fact finding expedition. We could fish, and swim, and then at night we could go back to our room."

And he could roll her beneath him in a bed, a real bed, could take the time to make love to her properly, not keeping one eye on the clock; they could be _together_ the way he so badly wanted them to be. He could see it now, Trish laughing in that green bikini, Trish sighing beneath him while he sank himself inside her, nothing to worry about, nowhere to be, no dangers, no SIS handlers, nothing but _them._ He was supposed to be running a successful shipping empire; surely, he thought, millionaire businessmen got to take vacations.

"Oh, sweetheart," Trish sighed, and he knew before she spoke another word that she was about to blow a hole right through his beautiful little fantasy. "You know we can't."

Nick grunted, to let her know he was listening, but he did not interrupt her; he could tell from the tone of her voice that she was just getting warmed up.

"SIS doesn't want us out of their sight, it's too dangerous. Even these little trips make them antsy. We have to explain every purchase on that card, and Abdul would flip if he found out we used it to take a vacation. Besides, Hartono may be gone, but there's still goods coming in, and he might call. And if he does, and SIS doesn't find out about it until later, they're going to be furious. We can't...we're not actually married, Wes. We aren't these people. This isn't our life."

"It feels like our life to me," he said, letting his hand drift lower on her back, cresting the swell of her bum while she shivered in his embrace. Melbourne, and the state police, his house and his mates, it all felt like something from a dream, just now, but Trish was real, warm and soft in his arms. "But you're right," he rushed to add. "You always are."

 _We aren't actually married._ He was grateful to her for saying it, much as he hated the reminder; he forgot, sometimes. They did the shopping together, cooked their meals together, ate together, slept together, shagged like the world was ending, laughed, when they could. The way he felt about her, the way they moved through their days together; it was what he'd always imagined having a wife would really be, the easy familiarity, the warmth, the comfort. But the rings on their fingers were just for show, and she was still a stranger to him, no matter how well he'd come to know her.

"I'm not saying I don't want to go," she said, very quietly. "It sounds...perfect."

"It sounds like a dream," he said. That was all it was, all it would ever be; a dream. Not just the vacation, the dream of a chance to actually shag in a bed, the dream of swimming through crystal blue waters without a gun runner watching menacingly from the deck of a yacht high above, but his life with her. It was a dream, insubstantial, and designed to end.

"In another life," Trish said wistfully. "I would have wanted that, very much."

 _You could have it._ The words were just there, on the tip of his tongue, but he managed to hold them back. He could beg her to tell him her name, to tell him where she lived, to tell him how to find her when this was all over; he could give her his own name in turn, and one day, when this job was through, he'd turn up at her door with a case of beer on his shoulder, and she'd smile that smile that made him weak in the knees, and…

He could almost see it all playing out like a film reel in his mind. Sitting with her on her sofa, drinking his beer, talking about everything they had never been allowed to say. Her taking his hand, leading him back to her bedroom, paintings she made with her own hand hanging proudly on the walls. Curling up with her beneath the blankets, being as loud as they wanted to be; he'd make her breakfast, in the morning. They'd go out for coffee, for dinner, go to movies, walk through city streets hand-in-hand with one another. He'd introduce her to his mates, and she'd cheer him on when he played footie at the weekend, and one day he'd charter a boat, and spend days just watching her tan skin sparkling like gold in the sun.

_It's just a dream._

She'd not tell him her name, no more than he'd give her his own. They'd both sworn their oaths, and sealed their fates in blood. Whatever he wanted, whatever might have been, he'd never know. There was no future for them, no happy ending, sailing off into the sunset together.

"Wes?" she said, and he knew then that he'd been thinking too loudly, that she must have understood the course his thoughts had taken, or at least felt the tension in him as he lamented for the life that never would be.

"I'm glad it was you," he said. SIS could have chosen anyone, could have picked any one of a hundred different women to be his Trish, but they'd picked her, clever and brave and strong and heart-stoppingly beautiful, and he could not imagine anyone he'd rather share this nightmare life with than her.

"I'm glad it was you, too," she answered, and ducked her head to press a gentle kiss against his chest. "I was worried when we first met, you know."

"About me?" he asked, surprised. He wasn't the sort of fella who usually made people anxious.

"You were so...confident," she said, and he grinned, because he knew what she'd meant was _smug._ He had been a bit, when they first met; he'd been so sure of himself, and she'd been on the back foot, and her indignation had made him smile, at first. At least, until he realized just how anxious she was, and then he'd stopped teasing her, and done what he could to make her feel more at ease with him. "You knew everything, and I felt like I was walking in blind."

"You found your feet pretty damn quick," he told her. He knew she still resented Abdul, just a little, still felt like their handler told Nick more than he'd ever told her, and he knew better than to kick that hornets' nest, even if he disagreed with her.

"Yeah, well, you helped," she said, and he shifted his grip upon her so that he could press a kiss against her forehead.

"I do anything for you, sweetheart." She shivered in his arms, and he smiled sadly; she was getting cold, and they'd been gone too long already. They still had to swing by the shops to pick up some dinner, to explain the time they'd spent away, and it was getting late.

"Come on, then," he said, and urged her to rise, watching with his heart in his throat as she lifted herself up, her blonde hair tumbling around her angel's face, her breasts soft and perfect, the movements in her body sending an ache radiating through him from the place where they were still joined.

"Let's go home." He let his hands trail over her hips for a moment, not entirely willing to part with her, and she smiled at him softly, knowingly, and leaned in to kiss him once sweetly before shuffling about in search of her clothes. This dream had ended; it was back to real life for them both, now.


	44. Chapter 44

_3 September 2010_

She was waiting for him just inside the door; he had no sooner stepped into their new house than he saw her, arms crossed over her chest, eyebrow furrowed with worry. In silence he closed the door behind him, allowed her brilliant eyes the opportunity to rove over his figure and determine for herself that he was well, and whole, still in one piece after meeting up with Hartono. It wasn't a guarantee, his safety; he knew she must have spent every moment of their time apart anxious, thinking about all sorts of unpleasant things that might have befallen him while he was away. People who pushed Hartono had a bad habit of ending up dead, as they well knew, and the spooks were pushing hard. Too hard.

 _Something's gotta give,_ he thought as he looked at her, this beautiful woman who had become the center of his whole world, the only rock he could cling to in the churning sea of betrayal and violence he'd found himself caught up in.

"Jen," he said her name, softly. The word was hardly more than a whisper, falling from his lips without any direction from his conscious mind; he ached for her, for her warmth, her counsel, her closeness, for her voice and her hands and her brave heart, for _her_ , his Jen. Only that morning - _Christ,_ was it only that morning? - his resolve had snapped and the words had come tumbling off his lips, and they had nearly...they had almost…

Jen reached for him, caught hold of his hand and turned away, marching urgently down the corridor. She did not speak, but he didn't need her to; he knew precisely where she was leading him, and why, and so he followed her, down the short corridor, across their spartan bedroom, and into the cramped little bathroom they now shared. She turned the shower on while he locked the door behind them; old habits, and all that. Both of them knew what they were doing, were well practiced now in the art of hiding themselves from the spooks. SIS would probably be pissed to see them disappear from view, to know they were deliberately hiding themselves and their conversation from observation, but SIS could hardly interrupt; Hartono might have them under surveillance even now, and Ratcliffe had already been by the house once today - not to mention that bullshit with the fake home intrusion. For now, just for this one moment, they were safe, and blessedly, blissfully alone.

After everything they'd endured today, the near-miss in the sitting room, the terror of finding guns pointing in their faces, the anxiety of Hartono's visit, Jen's careful confession before Nick left her, the bloody stupidity of going to see Hartono again, after all of it, there was nothing Nick wanted more than to be alone with her.

"Are you all right?" she asked him. Once more she'd crossed her arms over her chest, leaning back against the far wall while Nick stood by the door. There was not so much distance between them, not really. Sink to his left, shower pounding to his right, Jen right there on the other side of this small room; it all felt familiar in a way that made his heart skip a beat. They had been a bathroom like this one - well, the bathroom in the Sydney house was bigger, better equipped, and cleaner, but still - when they'd fallen into one another's arms the first time. A room just like this one, a fear just like this one, a need just like this one, steam billowing through the air above their heads. Only this time, this time if he reached for her he'd be risking so much more than he ever had before. This time, it wasn't just the operation that hung in the balance; it was everything. It was their jobs, their homes, their friends, their lives, their future. Everything; she was _everything._

"Yeah," he said, pushing himself up off the door and taking two short steps towards her. He wanted to close that space between them, finish what they'd started that morning. He loved her, she loved him, they were alone, and he could have gone for it, he knew. Could have reached out and let his fingers brush against her chin, encouraged her to raise up on her toes, to let him have what he'd been missing for the last five years. Could have, but didn't; it seemed cruel, somehow, to push her to make such a decision, to urge her to rush back into his arms when everything around them was so uncertain. It wouldn't be fair, because a kiss now wouldn't just be a kiss, a moment of madness contained within these few days - or weeks, or months - they were stuck in this house, but would instead be a tidal wave of change, sweeping over every aspect of their life. It would not be fair to rush her into such a decision, he thought, whatever her feelings for him, and so he did not push. Only stood, a little closer to her than before but not close enough to touch, and when she caught his eye he did not look away.

"It went ok?" she asked. "With Hartono?"

"Well as could be expected. He was irritated but he wasn't going to cause a scene in public. Sent me away with no promises, just said he'd call. His back is up. It's not gonna be pretty."

" _Fuck,"_ she sighed, scrubbing a weary hand over her face. Nick didn't often hear her swear these days - she was always too professional for that - but he could remember the way it sounded when she breathed that word in his ear, driven by passion rather than frustration, and he balled his hands into fists, trying not to think about how badly he wanted her, how badly he longed to bury himself inside the warmth of her and forget everything that existed outside that room.

"They've got a plan-"

"A bullshit plan-"

"They've got a _plan,_ " he insisted, glossing over her protest. "And we know Hartono. We'll keep our eyes open, we'll stay safe. Meet him in public again next time, if we can manage it. He's not gonna shoot us where other people can see."

For a moment Jen was quiet. There was nothing else to say about Hartono, or what would happen next; he'd told her all there was to tell, and all that was left to them now was to wait, and to hope. To wait, alone, in this cramped, dusty house, in that bed that was hardly big enough for the pair of them together, in this life they'd found themselves trapped in.

"I _hate_ this," she whispered.

"I know," Nick ducked his head as he answered, scuffed his shoes against the bathroom tiles

"And I don't want you to leave me again."

The expression on her face was desperate, almost, as desperate as Nick's own heart, miserable and scared and yet full of longing and he took two more steps, drawn in by the inexorable gravity of her beauty. He could not resist her; he'd never been able to hold himself back from her before, and now was no different.

She was still leaning against the wall, and so he reached for her, gently, let his palm press against her cheek, watched the way her eyelashes fluttered at the contact. That morning it was Jen who'd touched him; Nick had been too bloody terrified that he'd ruined their friendship to take such a risk, but she'd done it. She'd looked at him, and seen the yearning in his eyes, and reached for him, then, prepared to answer his declaration of devotion with a kiss. Would she answer his touch in kind now? In this moment when they were both frightened and heartsick and a hair's breadth from disaster?

"I won't leave you," he whispered fiercely. "Never."

For a moment her eyes locked on his, turning the word over in her mind. She knew what he meant, the promise he was making to her; Jen always knew just what he was thinking. And in this moment he was thinking how he loved her, how he loved to dance with her, drink with her, sleep with her, make love with her, go to the bloody shops with her, how every single moment of every single day was better with her in it, and how he would do anything in his power just to keep himself by her side, for as long as he drew breath. He would not leave her, not in this life or the one that would come after, the life waiting for them back home.

Jen turned her head, and pressed a gentle kiss to his palm, her lips soft and warm, sealing his vow there in the steam-filled bathroom of that shitty little house they both hated.

"I do, you know," she breathed. He felt the words in the brush of her lips against his skin, and shivered despite the warmth of the room. _You know how I feel about you,_ he'd said to her, and she had not answered him with words, then, but he rather felt she was now, that she was thinking, even as he was, of what could have, would have happened between them if only they'd been allowed a moment's respite.

"I know," he said, very softly.

"And I…" her voice trailed off, her eyes soft as she stared at him, and he stared right back, his fingers tensing softly against her cheek.

"I know," he said. He did, and she did, and _fuck it,_ he thought, and used the hand still cradling her face to pull her towards him. Just a little, just a tilt of her chin, and he saw a smile dance across her lips as he leaned towards her. Those perfect lips parted, and Nick drew in one long, slow breath, their noses brushing together for an instant, soft, comfortable, familiar, re-learning all the ways they could slot into place against one another. Smiling, hardly breathing, heats racing, his nose nuzzled against her cheek for a moment, but then she reached up and wrapped her hand around the back of his neck, and he was powerless to resist her. He closed the space between them and let his lips brush hers once, softly, but Jen was having none of it. Of the pair of them she had always been the more impatient, and now was no different; her tongue surged past his lips and he wrapped his arms tight around her, hauled her hard against him as their kiss raced from soft and sweet to blindingly intense in a moment. She tasted the same, smelled the same, felt the same, and his heart sang in his chest. Kissing her felt like nothing so much as coming home, relief and joy and comfort all at once.

Deftly he turned them, hoisted her easily up onto the counter by the sink and stepped at once between her parted thighs, let her legs lock round his hips while her fingers drifted softly through his hair and her tongue slid against his own. It had been like this, the first time between them - and several times after that - and while Nick would have given anything to have her in a proper bed, _his_ bed, there was a beautiful sort of symmetry to it, he thought. Starting over, not for the first time, nor even really for the second, forging themselves anew, pledging their devotion with gentle hands and heated words. It had been five years since the last time he'd touched her, kissed her, loved her, five _years_ of yearning and near misses. It had been more than a year, now, of quiet drinks and falling asleep beside her but keeping his hands to himself, more than a year of pretending she was a mate, same as any other, and his resolve was at a breaking point. She was all he wanted, and she was _here_ , kissing him messily, scraping her nails against his scalp, using the leverage of her legs around his waist to rock him against her. He was half-hard from the memory of her alone, and the current vision of her blonde hair, softly curling at the ends from the steam, her grey eyes wide and bright, her hips lithe and lovely beneath his hands, was working wonders for the other half. The rest of it could wait, he thought, the conversations about what came next and what they'd be to one another; right now, he had to have her.

And so he redoubled his efforts, caught her bottom lip between his teeth until she whined, let one of his hands trail over her soft thigh, heading for the warmth between her legs, but he never made it. The shrill blaring of his mobile tore them both out of the moment; he was reaching for it almost before he'd stopped kissing her, but by the time he held the phone to his ear they had both let go of any hope of continuing this dalliance. Jen sighed, and let her head fall forward to rest on his shoulder as Nick answered the call.


	45. Chapter 45

_13 May 2005_

"All right, sweetheart," Jen said softly, speaking to him as if he were a recalcitrant housecat, and not a full grown man head and shoulders taller than she was. "Here we go, Wes. Here we go."

He was leaning on her heavily, his eyes half closed, shuffling along as she led him through their bedroom, into the bathroom. For once she didn't worry about the cameras seeing both of them disappear into that room together; the spooks knew damn good and well exactly what had happened, and they knew Wesley would need her, now. There was a whole hell of a lot they _didn't_ know, but just this once she knew she'd be granted a reprieve.

 _Friday the thirteenth,_ Jen thought grimly as she steered Wesley into the bathroom, eased him down to sit on the closed lid of the loo. _It's meant to be unlucky, isn't it?_

It had been, for them, damned unlucky. For the second time in two months they'd found themselves caught in the crossfire, dodging bullets and clinging to one another. For the second time in two months they'd watched someone they counted a friend die right in front of them, and nothing they could do to stop it. This time, though, they hadn't come through their ordeal unscathed; there was a massive gash along Wesley's bicep, hidden now beneath a heavy layer of bandages. His left arm, close to his heart; the arm he'd used to catch hold of her, draw her hard against him. A few inches to the inside, and he'd be gone, now, and her, too, probably.

"A bath, I think," Jen said, spinning away from him. His eyes were vacant, half from the pain meds the back alley doctor had given him when Abdul took him to get cleaned up, and half from grief. The mind had a way of shutting down, when life grew too terrible to bear; Jen had seen it often enough in her own life, felt it often enough, to recognize that the pain in his heart was worse than the pain in his arm. The doc had cut the sleeve clean off his shirt - _good riddance,_ Jen thought, she hated those bloody awful shirts - but there was blood and dirt all over him, and her, too, from their tumble to the ground.

While she faffed around with the bath, trying to get the water as hot it would go, hot enough to purge them both of the horror of this evening, the silence settled heavy on Jen's shoulders. Ordinarily she didn't mind the silence, and especially not with _him;_ Wesley had a way of making silence seem friendly, comfortable. He measured every word, and only spoke when he needed to, and most of the time he didn't need to anyway; she understood him well enough by now. She _knew_ him, his clever mind, his gentle heart, his steadfast determination. She _knew_ him, and she loved him, and he'd almost -

Jen drew in a ragged breath and closed her eyes, hoping to clear her head. But the sound of the water rushing to fill the bath and the silence from Wesley just sent her ricocheting back in time, back to the moment when everything had gone to shit. Again.

It was a Friday, and a pleasant evening, and they'd gone round to Frank and Marcy's for drinks. Frank had something on his mind and Wesley had been hoping the drinks would loosen him up, hoping that tonight they'd learn something that could move the operation forward. They'd all gone out to the garden to enjoy the last of the autumn sunshine, sipping cocktails and laughing. Marcy and Jen had been standing near the grill, talking about their next planned outing with the girls, and Wesley had been standing with Frank, watching him flip their steaks and talking about work. It had been the most ordinary sort of scene, out on the grass behind Frank and Marcy's palatial home, a place Wesley and Jen had been often enough for it to feel familiar, and safe. Wes thought maybe Frank might know something about a shipment of human cargo in the works, and maybe he did; it was too late to find out, now. It was too late, because while they'd all been standing around, chatting and drinking, a car had rolled by, and _pop pop pop,_ the bullets had exploded into their little group.

Marcy screamed, Frank went down, Wesley dove for Jen, caught her round the middle and tackled her to the dirt, sheltered her head beneath his chest and waited for the horror to pass. He'd left himself exposed, again, risked everything to keep her safe. With her eyes closed Jen could still hear it, the rush of blood in her ears, Wes's panting breaths, Marcy's screams, ending abruptly. It was over as quickly as it had begun; the car peeled off, and Wes had caught her face in his hands, his eyes traveling over her, trying to reassure himself that she was all right. That was when Jen noticed the blood on his arm; he told her didn't even feel it, the bullet that sliced through his flesh like a knife, hot as hellfire. Maybe he hadn't; adrenaline was a funny old thing.

They sat up together, Jen and Wesley, and that was when Abdul turned up, running across the grass. Where he'd been hiding, how much he'd seen, why he hadn't stopped it - whether he even could - Jen didn't know. He'd dragged them to their feet and waited with them until the police arrived, and all the while Wes was bleeding. Jen had taken his good arm, looped it round her shoulders, done her best to hold him up. They couldn't talk, not with Abdul there, not with Frank and Marcy bleeding on the grass. Jen had wanted to check them both for a pulse, but Abdul had shot her a pitying look, and put an end to that at once. It didn't take long for the cops to arrive, and Abdul had flashed a badge and muttered something to them in a voice too low for Jen to hear it, passed off his card and then herded his charges away, just like that. There were men in suits coming across the grass as they departed; no doubt SIS intended to take over the investigation for themselves. They could have it, as far as Jen was concerned, she was done with this shit.

"All right, I think we're ready," Jen said, finally turning back to look at him. The bath was full and the door was locked; they were alone, again, but she felt as if she couldn't breathe, choking on her fear and her sorrow. Wesley looked as wrung out as she felt; his head hung low on his shoulders, and he didn't look up when she spoke.

"Here we go, sweetheart," she said, crossing the room to stand in front of him, kneeling at his feet. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Abdul had taken them to an office that looked suspiciously like a veterinarians, and the doctor had opened the back door for them, bustled them through it with cool efficiency and not a single question. He'd cut the sleeve off Wesley's shirt, gave him pills to take and water to drink, and then cleaned and stitched his wound in record time. The bullet had just grazed him, but _graze_ didn't do justice to the extent of the damage, to Jen's mind. The cut was deep, and red, and angry, and caked with blood. It would be days before he could raise that arm above his head, let alone carry anything. _I'll carry it for him,_ Jen swore to herself as she knelt before him, reached for his shirt buttons and began to carefully unfasten them. He'd do the same for her if their roles were reversed.

The hollow look in his eyes was terrifying, and so Jen kept her gaze focused on her own hands. He was everything to her, the only person she could count on, and she didn't know what would become of her if she lost him. She damn near had, lost him, and her whole body shook at the very thought.

"Can you stand up for me, sweetheart?" she asked him gently when the buttons were undone. He nodded dumbly, and so she rose to her feet and then caught hold of him under his arms, guiding him as he stood. She'd never be able to lift him on her own, and so she didn't try, just held him steady while he pulled himself up with his own strength.

"This may hurt a little," she said, easing his shirt off one shoulder, and then carefully sliding it down his left arm. He hissed in pain when her hand grazed his wound, and she leaned in to kiss his bare shoulder by way of apology.

"These next," she said, and reached for his belt buckle. The trousers were easier to get off him than his shirt had been; he steadied himself with his right hand on her shoulder, his fingers clutching at her hard as if he were half afraid she might vanish in the next breath. She tugged his trunks down with his trousers and he stepped out of them, naked now except for his shoes. Ordinarily the sight of his bare body, broad and strong and hard with muscle, was enough to leave her weak with longing for him, but this was not a moment built for seduction; she was trying, in her own way, to protect him, to care for him, and lust didn't factor into the bargain.

"You, too?" he asked softly as he toed out of his shoes, still holding onto her shoulders. They were the first words he'd spoken since Abdul had found them in the garden, and his voice was hoarse with exhaustion, but she was relieved to hear it. Wherever he had gone to in his mind in the last few hours he was here with her now, and asking in his own way for her to join him. As if he were half-afraid to leave him, when she knew she never would.

"Let's get you in the bath first," she answered. She fully intended to join him once she was settled, but she didn't trust his legs to hold him while she undressed.

Carefully she led him across the bathroom, let him hold onto her as he stepped into the tub and slowly bent his knees, sinking beneath the water. The house might have been a bit lackluster in other departments, but the bathtub was a thing of beauty, for it was big enough to fit them both - if only just. The moment he was settled Jen turned her attention to her own filthy clothes, tugging them off as quickly as she could manage. Wesley watched her the whole time, but there was no heat in his eyes; he only looked tired, and sad, and the sight of him, made somehow small as he sat in the bath with his knees drawn up to his chest, tugged at her heartstrings. Ordinarily he was the one who held himself together while she fell apart, and she wanted, more than anything, to be strong enough for him now.

The second she was bare she slid into the tub behind him. They'd not done this before, shared a bath, but she'd thought about it. Wondered what it might be like to lie back against his chest, soaking in the water, soaking in the warmth of him. Her imaginings had never been anything like this, her behind him, the soft hair of his thighs brushing against her smooth skin, the muscles of his back tight with tension, the meeting of their bodies desperate, and joyless.

"Come here," she said, wrapping her arms around his middle and gently pulling them both back so that she could lean against the edge of the tub and he could lean against her chest. Wes sighed as they moved, some of the tension leaving him as the water sloshed around them, relaxing into her embrace. They settled together, quiet and warm, and Jen kept her arms wrapped tight around him, his head resting against her shoulder.

"Are you all right?" she asked him.

He didn't answer her, not right away, and she knew that he was warring with himself, trying to find the words to express just how far from all right he was. She let the silence settle, pressed a kiss against the side of his head and held him, waiting.

"It should have been us," Wesley said after a moment, and Jen's heart leapt into her throat. She'd never heard him so dejected before, and it scared her almost more than the bullets had done. "Hartono knows someone is informing on him, and he's taking people out. People are dying because we…"

His voice gave out, and he scrubbed his good hand across his face, and Jen just held him tighter. Through all the fear and chaos of the last few hours she hadn't taken the time to consider the full ramifications of the attack, but Wesley had. He had, and the conclusion he'd drawn left her stunned and heartsick. It wasn't Frank who was informing SIS about Hartono's movements, but Frank was spilling secrets to Wesley. Frank thought he'd just been chatting to a mate, and it had cost him his life, while Wesley lay warm and safe in Jen's arms, still breathing. If it hadn't been for them, Frank would still be alive, and Marcy, too, and _Christ,_ they had children, those poor little kids-

Tears stung the corners of Jen's eyes, and she pressed her face close to his cheek, trying to find comfort in the warmth of skin-on-skin, in the beating of his heart beneath her arms.

"We didn't know," she said miserably.

"We did," Wesley answered. "Damn it, Trish, we knew exactly what we were doing. Who's going to be next? Is every person we talk to going to die? What happens when...what happens when it's one of us?"

"It won't be," she hissed, flattening her palm over his beating heart, holding him hard to her. In her arms he sighed, and covered her hand with his own, their fingers sliding together.

"What happened today...that's on Hartono, Wes. He did this. And we are going to catch this bastard, and he is never going to hurt anyone ever again."

She said the words fiercely, as if she believed them, as if they were true. It _had_ to be true, and she had to believe it, because if they failed, if all this grief and misery didn't bring Hartono down in the end, Jen didn't know how she'd live with herself. The sacrifices she'd made, the months of her life she'd lost, the towering sorrow she'd feel when she was finally forced to let Wesley go; she had to find meaning in it, could not resign herself to living out the rest of her days drowning in regret and mourning for every mistake she'd made, every human life lost along the way.

"Let's get you cleaned up," she whispered, and reached for the shampoo. Wesley let her, let her gently sluice water over his head, let her run her fingers through his hair until all the filth came away. The first time he'd held her, the first time he'd buried himself inside her, the first time their world came to an end and she found peace in his arms, he'd washed her hair. At the time she'd wanted to return the favor; he had been so tender, so reverent in the way he cared for her, and she'd wanted to do the same for him, to let her hands whisper devotion across his skin. That first time the hot water had given out and the moment had been ruined, but she had her chance, now. And so she touched him gently, and began to hum as he lay in her arms, his eyes closed, his powerful body relaxed and soft against her. This man, this dear man, carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, and Jen was determined to do whatever she could to lighten the load, to remind him that he did not walk this road alone.

Darkness had come for them. Frank's death meant that there was no one else for Hartono to take his business to, no one else to hear his secrets and do his dirty work. He would give it all to Wesley, and the peril they found themselves in had increased a hundredfold. The next time Hartono went looking for a mole in his operation there would be no one else to bear the blame but Wesley.

 _He'll have to get through me first,_ Jen thought grimly as still her fingers worked through Wesley's soft hair. This man was _hers_ , and she would not give him up without a fight.


	46. Chapter 46

_4 September 2010_

Nick's whole body was trembling with barely suppressed rage as Byrnes sauntered out of the house; the callous disregard SIS had displayed for their well-being, the way they had, quite deliberately, thrown Nick and Jen into danger and shrugged off Jen's injury left his blood boiling and his fists clenched hard down by his side. The first go round Abdul had been flippant about the possible risks of their work, but back then Nick had always felt as if Abdul was just trying to keep their spirits up, maintaining a facade of false confidence in order to keep Nick and Jen both in the road. Now, though, Abdul was dead and these bastards seemed to determine to press on until Nick and Jen were, too.

 _Jen,_ he reminded himself. He had to focus on something other than how badly he wanted to land his fist in the middle of McAllister's smug face, and Jen was hurting. SIS had pushed them to go to Hartono again, and Jen had gone with him, insistent that he not face the man alone, and she'd gotten shot for her trouble. That was something else he remembered, from before, the pain of a bullet darting across his arm, how useless he'd felt, unable to so much as make a fist for days, reliant on Jen - _Trish,_ back then - to help him dress himself, to wash his bloody hair while he had to keep the bandage on his arm dry. She'd need him now, the way he needed her before, and not just to get her shirt off. The fear he remembered, too, that sense of the walls closing in, trouble coming for them, and nothing he could do to stop it, the hopelessness he'd felt, it all came roaring back to him with sudden clarity, and he knew she must have been feeling it, too, only worse now, because now they knew exactly how ugly things could get, and now they knew no one was coming to save them. SIS had promised to watch their backs, and they had _failed._

"Hey," he said, softly, approaching her warily. Jen was still sitting on the sofa, her head hung low on her shoulders, her hair lank and mussed, blood staining the bandage on her arm. Even from a distance he could see her hands were shaking. As he spoke she lifted her head, and in her glorious eyes he saw all the rage and pain and fear he carried within his own heart.

"Let's get you cleaned up, eh?" he asked.

For a moment he thought she might tell him _no._ Jen had always been the sort who preferred to deal with troublesome emotions on her own, who stepped back and thought her way through problems instead of asking for help. At a time like this, when she no doubt felt helpless and used, she might not want comfort at all, might prefer a bit of privacy. If that was what she needed he'd give it to her, no questions asked, but he desperately hoped it wasn't. He wanted to take care of her, the way she deserved, the way she had always done for him when he needed it.

"Yeah, all right," she said. "I could do with a wash."

Nick held his hand out to her and she took it, let him lead her from the sofa back through that shitty, empty house to the en suite. The door closed behind them with a snap, and Nick breathed a sigh of relief when it did. Let SIS ask questions about what they were doing, holed up in the bathroom together; he'd tell them the truth, that Jen couldn't manage her clothes with one good hand, and he'd only gone into help. If he'd done it because he loved her, because he was desperate to talk to her without anyone overhearing, because he ached to hold her, that was nobody's business but his own.

"How do you want-" he started to ask her, but Jen interrupted him at once.

"Just get the bloody thing off me," she said, plucking at the thin shirt she wore with her good hand. She was all but vibrating with irritation, nerves shot from the panic of the day and the pain in her arm, and so Nick approached her slowly, breathing deeply and trying to calm his own clamoring heart.

"I didn't like that shirt, anyway," he told her softly as he began his work, starting with the makeshift sling they'd used to bind her arm. Carefully he untied it, and slid it out from around her neck.

"I hate these stupid clothes," she told him. They always had done; he and Jen preferred plainer, more professional wear in their daily lives, and the Claybournes' wardrobes had always been a sore spot for them. He felt bloody ridiculous every time he slipped into one of those gaudy patterned shirts, and he knew Jen hated Trish's skirts just as much.

"This is going to hurt," he told her as he caught the bottom of her shirt in his hands.

"I can take it."

Nick hummed; he knew she could, could take any pain, any grievance, any disaster thrown her way and march through it with her head held high, but he wished she didn't have to. She deserved better than this. As gently as he could he eased the shirt up, encouraged her to free her good arm before sliding the shirt off the other, doing his best not to tug on her skin or press against her bandages. She did not hiss or squirm or flinch; Jen stood ramrod straight before him, and her face betrayed not one ounce of self-pity or shame when she found herself stripped bare in front of him.

"Should I-"

"Take the lot of it off," she grumbled, and then added, "please," more softly this time, as if to make up for the brusque way she'd spoken to him so far.

"Buy a man a drink first," he said, stepping behind her to unfasten the clasp of her bra. It was a weak attempt at levity, but it succeeded in making her laugh, if only for an instant.

"We've done it all out of order, haven't we?"

She stood stock still while he stepped up close to her, let his hands follow the path of her arms as he slid her bra free, tossed it aside. In front of him she was warm and soft, and he wanted to let his hands trace over her skin, wanted to seek out all the pieces of her he remembered but had not seen for years now. It wasn't the moment for such exploration, however, and so he merely stepped back in front of her, and kept his gaze firmly fixed on his hands as he began to unfasten her trousers.

"We got married before we ever had a meal together," she continued then. She was right about that; he'd slipped a gold band on her finger in that shitty hotel the morning they'd first stepped into the Claybournes' lives. "And you kissed me before you ever even knew my name."

"Hey, _you_ kissed me," he reminded her as he bent his knees, tugged knickers and trousers both down off her hips and tried not to look at what had been revealed beneath them.

"In the bathroom? That was-"

"On the boat."

She was stark naked, now, and he was still fully dressed, and it was impossible not to look at her, the soft slope of her breasts, the smooth expanse of her belly, the lean shape of her thighs. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, thinking how beautiful she was, but he jerked his gaze back up to her face quickly, and that smile faded fast, for Jen was frowning, ever so slightly.

"I'd forgotten about the boat," she said, and she sounded like she regretted it.

"I didn't," he told her, and then he stepped away, intent on running the bath. The bath here was shitty, too, smaller than the one in the Sydney house had been, but it looked clean, and that was good enough for Nick. The roaring of the water through the pipes helped to drown out the racing of his heart, which had begun to pound at the memory of Jen in that damnable green bikini, sprawled across his lap on the deck of Hartono's yacht with the stars twinkling above them.

"I can't wash my hair," she said to his back. He knew what she was really trying to tell him; he'd started the bath for her, which was of course the whole reason they'd come into this room in the first place, and she was asking him to stay with her, to help her.

"I can," he said, and took a deep breath before turning back around to face her. _Christ,_ the sight of her naked took him like a punch to the gut; she was so bloody beautiful, and the only thing in the world that mattered to him, and it was killing him not to touch her.

"I won't be much help," she said, gesturing towards him, but there was a knowing look in her eye, and Nick grinned a bit ruefully as he reached for the buttons of his own shirt. She'd given him a show, while he undressed her; he supposed it was time to return the favor.

"You loved that boat, didn't you?" she said, leaning back against the counter and not even pretending to look away as he undressed. "You kept talking about it, how we could charter one ourselves and go on a vacation."

"I looked into it after I got home," he confessed as he quickly shed himself of Wesley Claybourne's stupid clothes. "I wouldn't want to buy one, it's too much work, but I thought it would be nice to take one out for a while."

"Did you ever do it?" she asked curiously. He was naked, now, and half-hard from the sight of her, and he raised his head slowly, and found her watching him, and nothing but warmth in her bright eyes.

"Didn't want to go alone," he answered. Before she could question him further he turned back to the bath, and found it full enough for their purposes. Slowly he sank himself into it, sighing as the warmth of the water seeped into his aching muscles, and as he settled he held his hand out to her. Jen took it, let him hold her steady as she stepped between his parted thighs.

 _This is dangerous,_ he thought, but he reached for her hips, and guided her slowly down until she was sitting between his knees. Jen sighed, too, and leaned back against his chest, and Nick gave up any pretense of restraint. Instead of holding himself back he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, and bowed his head to press a kiss against the curve of her shoulder.

"We could do it now, you know," he told her while her good hand trailed warm water over the slope of his thigh. "When this is done. We've both got leave time owing. We could take a boat, disappear for a few days. Just you and me, no cameras, no murders. Sunshine and blue water."

Jen hummed, and he hoped it was because she enjoyed the picture he painted as much as he did.

"I could teach you how to fish."

"What makes you think I don't know how to fish?" she asked him archly. Her wounded arm was resting on his knee, held up out of the water, but her good hand found his, resting against her stomach, and her palm ran softly over his fingers in a way that made him long to kiss her again.

"Do you?"

"No."

They both laughed, and he pressed his lips to her shoulder again.

"It would be fun," he said, returning to his dream of a vacation he knew in his heart they'd never take. "We'd just swim, and eat, and sleep." _Do more than sleep,_ he thought, but though they had both of them found the courage to confess to the feelings they carried in their hearts he did not want to appear presumptuous, and so he kept that thought to himself.

"You know we can't, Nick," she said softly, miserably.

"Why not? When this is done -"

"When this is done we will still be on the same crew. You know the rules. We can't work together and sleep together. And the brass will be watching us more closely than ever now that they know we lied to them."

Nick took one slow, deep breath, tried to savor the soothing heat of the water and the comforting weight of her in his arms, tried to think his way through the problem she'd presented him. She was right, of course - she always was. _You don't screw the crew,_ everybody knew that. But _Christ_ , he couldn't imagine letting things go back to normal when this op was done, watching Jen walk away from him every night, knowing he loved her, knowing she loved him, and yet still not being able to do anything about it. He was tired of other people telling him where to go, what to say, how to live. It was bad enough on the op; he wouldn't tolerate it in his own life.

"Jen," he said, speaking slowly and trying to keep the passion he felt for her from turning his voice harsh. "Please don't ask me to give you up again."

It had been hard enough the first time, when he didn't know her name, when he thought he'd never see her again. If he had to wake up every morning and work beside her, pretending all the while she meant no more to him than Matt or Duncan, he was fairly certain it might kill him.

"I don't want you to," she whispered, and she pressed her hand against him, laced her fingers through his and held on tight. "I just don't know what to do and everything is too confusing. Nick, I'm on heavy painkillers, don't ask me to make life changing decisions right now."

"You're right," he said, because she was. "I'm sorry."

"Can we just...can you just hold me, for a little while?" her voice was soft, and sad, and it broke his heart to hear her sounding so lost.

"As long as you want." _Forever,_ he thought, _if you'll let me._

Slowly Nick leaned back, and Jen went with him, and they both closed their eyes, and held on tight.


	47. Chapter 47

_3 June 2005_

"It will be all right, sweetheart," Trish told him, reaching across the table to gently cover his hand with her own. "You'll see."

Nick smiled at her, a wan, tired little smile he knew never reached his eyes, a smile they both knew was not sincere in the least. It warmed his heart, her kindness, her reassurances, her efforts to keep them both from spiralling off into an anxiety-induced madness, but he could not shake the nerves that settled low at the base of his spine, left him restless and unsteady. For her sake he would have to be calm, nonchalant the way _Wesley_ was always supposed to be, no matter how much his own heart cried out in fear and rage.

It was three weeks to the day since the shooting at Frank and Marcy's, since Nick had tackled Trish to the ground and held her tight against his chest while their friends died on the grass and his arm screamed out in pain. He wasn't wearing a sling, any more, and the stitches had come out, but he still couldn't raise his left arm above his head, couldn't lift anything with that hand. The doctor said his mobility would improve with time, but it wasn't the use of his arm that had Nick worried; it was the fact that they had come so damnably close to dying themselves, that more lives had been lost for the sake of the work they did, that the danger around them was only increasing, and he wasn't sure how much longer he would be able to keep Trish safe. For months that had been his first priority, protecting her, and now he felt himself utterly useless in that regard.

To make matters worse, Hartono was at that very moment on his way to a meeting at the Claybournes' home. It was a boon SIS had not looked for, that Hartono would willingly walk into a room they'd already bugged. There was no need to worry about whether or not he was surveilling the house in advance of his arrival; the cameras and mics had been planted months before, and if he had people watching all they would see was Trish and Wesley, going to work, going to the shops, visiting their acquaintances, lying around the garden. There was nothing in the Claybournes' day-to-day that would give him cause for alarm, and when he turned up SIS would be able to hear every word he said.

If indeed he meant to speak at all, if he weren't just sending Mr. Prakoso round to take out Trish and Wesley the same as he'd done Frank and Marcy. Nick was certain Prakoso had been behind the attack; he was the one who'd stood idly by while the SIS agents were gunned down, the one who had taken Hartono's place to ensure the deed was done. A man like Hartono didn't do the dirty work himself, he needed a strong second to carry out the violence and keep Hartono's hands clean.

"He needs us," Trish said when Nick had been quiet too long.

"You're right." Now that Frank was out of the picture there was only one company left to handle all of Hartono's work; Claybourne shipping had been doing big business lately, taking over the majority of Frank's accounts, legal and illegal both. As far as Nick knew Hartono wasn't working with anyone else, and he didn't seem the type to act rashly. He'd bring in a second company before he killed the Claybournes, surely; at least, that's what Nick tried to tell himself.

A sudden, sharp knock on the door sucked the breath from Nick's lungs; he spared a glance at Trish, and found her wide eyed and worried, but she nodded resolutely when he caught her gaze. _No going back,_ he thought.

And so he heaved himself out of his chair, and Trish rose, too, her hand slipping slowly away from his as he crossed the house on leaden feet, plastering an easy smile on his face before opening the door.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said, stepping aside to allow Hartono and Prakoso room to pass by him and into the house. "Come on inside, Trish just put the kettle on."

"Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Claybourne," Hartono said. As Nick closed the door behind the men Hartono lingered, his eyes roving across the entryway, taking in the details of the house while Prakoso moved on, heading towards the kitchen as if he knew the layout already. Maybe he did.

"An interesting piece," Hartono said, gesturing towards the painting on the wall by the front door. "A local artist?"

The painting in question was an abstract sort of landscape, trees and a stream in hues of deep browns and greens.

"That, mate, is a Trish Claybourne original," Nick told him, and he did not have to fake the pride that suffused his voice. She had surprised him with that, her skill in painting, and that particular piece was among his favorites. He'd be sorry to lose it when the job ended.

"A woman of many talents," Hartono said, but his tone was disinterested, and so Nick did not belabor the point.

"That she is," he said. "Shall we?" He gestured for Hartono to follow him down the corridor.

In the kitchen Prakoso was already sitting at the table, and Trish was busy with the kettle, pouring out four cups of tea.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Claybourne," Hartono said courteously. Nick indicated that he should sit, and so the gentlemen settled themselves around the table while Trish finished her work at the counter.

"Good afternoon," Trish answered. "Welcome to our home."

"I was sorry to hear about the unfortunate attack on Frank Holland," Hartono said. He sat ramrod straight in his chair, and he did not smile when Trish placed a cup of tea in front of him. There was sugar already on the table, but he did not reach for it; instead he remained still, and calm, and cold, and just the sight of him left Nick feeling vaguely nauseous.

"So were we," Nick said, adding, "thank you, sweetheart," softly as Trish handed him his cup of tea. With the three gentlemen served she settled into a seat at Nick's left hand, holding her cup and watching the conversation silently, the way Hartono expected her to.

"I read about it in the newspaper," Hartono said, a bold-faced lie. "I was shocked. As I'm sure you were when you found out."

Hartono had just neatly lobbed a hand grenade into Nick's lap. The man had to have known that Trish and Wesley were present when the shooting took place, and he was, however indirectly, asking for confirmation of that fact. Nick could lie to him, say they read about it in the paper, too, but Hartono would know the lie for what it was, and might mistrust him for it. Though his wound was neatly covered by his horrid patterned shirt he would not be lifting his teacup with his left hand; perhaps Hartono would notice that, too. Lying would allow him to avoid the topic altogether, and would allow him to avoid discussing their lack of interaction with the police, but they need Hartono onside. Then again, if Nick confessed to having witnessed the crime, Hartono might feel the need to tie up loose ends by ensuring that Trish and Wesley Claybourne never told anyone what they saw. There was no time for Nick to debate the merits of his choices; Hartono was not a patient man, and every heartbeat that passed made Wesley look more and more suspicious.

"To tell you the truth, mate," Nick said, reaching out to take hold of Trish's hand where it rested on the table, "we were there when it happened. Never been so bloody scared in my life."

"You were there when Frank was killed?" Hartono asked. Perhaps he meant to feign surprise, but Nick saw through him at once.

"We were. Didn't see a damn thing, not the car, not the shooter, nothing. I was too worried about Trish to look around much. I have a friend in the local police, he's kept our name out of the papers. Not that we've been any good to them, considering we don't know a damn thing about it."

"We just want to put it behind us," Trish said quietly, and Nick squeezed her hand once to let her know how grateful he was for the earnest sincerity of her tone.

"How dreadful for you both," Hartono murmured. As they talked Prakoso watched them all with the dark, dead eyes of a shark, and his silence unnerved Nick. He couldn't shake the thought that perhaps Prakoso was armed, just waiting for a nod from Hartono before he murdered Trish and Wesley where they sat.

"I'm glad we didn't see the shooter," Nick said. "No reason for them to worry about us informing on them, since we don't know who they are. We're hoping that means they won't pay us a visit. We don't want any trouble."

Hartono wasn't the only who could play word games; Nick was trying, in his own way, to let Hartono know there was nothing he needed to fear from the Claybournes. They'd not seen anything, and they had no intention of reporting anything to the police, about the murder or Hartono's activities. Of course they _were_ informing on Hartono to SIS, but it was just another lie in a sea of them.

"I am glad to hear that, for your sake," Hartono told him. "You are a valuable partner to me, and I would be disappointed to lose you."

 _Disappointed,_ that's all Hartono would be if Trish and Wesley ended up dead. Two more lives lost, and it would be nothing but a minor inconvenience to him. _Christ,_ Nick hated this bastard. But Hartono had just confirmed that Nick's suspicions were correct, that he had not come here to kill the Claybournes but rather to do business with them. It was a thin victory, but a victory nonetheless.

"I do not wish to appear crass," Hartono continued then, "but I am afraid I have come to discuss business. Frank was a great help to me, and without him I find myself in need of further assistance."

"Whatever it is, we're happy to help," Nick said. He was still holding Trish's hand; somehow he couldn't quite bring himself to let go. She brought him peace when he needed it, kept him steady when every nerve in his body was screaming at him to run. This man had ordered the deaths of four people that Nick knew about, left Nick himself injured and weak, and sitting with him now filled Nick with an anger and a fear the likes of which he'd never known before. No homicide suspect had ever been as vicious or calculating as Muhammad Hartono, and Nick was beginning to worry that this was one criminal he couldn't outsmart. The conversation so far had been laced with innuendo, but none of it was any good to SIS. They needed details, specifics, evidence laid out in black and white. Until they got that, this charade would continue its deadly progress with nothing to show for the sacrifices Trish and Wesley had made so far.

"I am opening a new business," Hartono told him. "A chain of laundromats and dry cleaners. We'll start with two stores in Sydney, and then expand. We are shipping equipment in from Indonesia. The first containers will begin to arrive in a few weeks, Mr. Prakoso can give you the details. We will need you to move five boxes a week for us in the beginning, and then we will need your full attention for the entire month of September."

"That's a lot of cargo for two shops," Nick said before he could stop himself. His damn detective's mind had overriden the instincts he'd developed as a spook and he'd slipped into interrogation mode without even thinking about it. There was no way Hartono missed that, and he wasn't the sort of man who appreciated being questioned. Any good rapport Nick might have managed to build so far could easily be destroyed by that one simple slip-up; he sat still and steady, and waited to see how his quarry might react.

"Just two to begin with," Hartono said levelly, but there was a flash of something in his eyes that left Nick worried. "We plan to expand quickly."

"Whatever you need, we're happy to assist," Trish said. She did not look at Nick, did not flash a warning glance his way, but her fingers tightened against his ever so slightly. "We can handle the boxes, and we can clear out our September calendar for you, push other cargo to smaller business. We'll make it happen."

Nick had to give her credit; she'd smoothed over his misstep neatly, and given him a chance to reel himself back in. Dry cleaners were a not uncommon front for human traffickers; the people-runners would bring folks - girls, usually - into the country, house them in squalid conditions behind the front room of the cleaners, work them for a few months while they arranged transport to private buyers. If Hartono wanted Claybourne Shipping all to himself come September, it had to be because he was bringing in live cargo. The clock was ticking, now, an end in sight. Hartono had just confirmed _he_ was the one calling the shots, and when that ship came in, Nick and Trish could take him out. SIS had proof, now, that Hartono was the one behind the shipments, and when those containers hit the docks there would be no other business on Claybourne Shipping's books to take the fall for them. All they had to do was wait, and come September they could bring Hartono down, not just for guns, not just for shady business practices and tax evasion, but for trafficking. He'd never take another breath as a free man for the rest of his life, and Trish and Wesley could finally finish this damn operation. A few more months, and they could put this whole thing behind them. 

If they lived that long.


	48. Chapter 48

_5 September 2010_

The pain in Jen's arm woke her abruptly just before sunrise; the pills had worn off, and she was aching, burning, miserable before she even opened her eyes. The clever thing to do would be to reach for the glass of water and the bottle of medication on the side table, to take something now, before the pain grew too great to bear, but the thought of moving made her head spin, and she remained right where she was, warm beneath the blankets.

She'd slept flat on her back to keep from straining her arm, but that hadn't stopped Nick from reaching for her while they slept. He was pressed hard to her side, his arm flung out over her belly, his breath warm against her shoulder. It had always been like that, with Nick; no matter how hard they tried to stay to their separate sides when they lay down, as soon as sleep claimed them he would reach for her, wrap himself around her and hold her as if he never meant to let her go. She'd always thought it rather sweet, the way he seemed to want, to _need_ to hold her, the way he seemed to long for comfort, even if he was too proud and too strong to ask for it in waking life. In dreams he had no restraint, and neither of them could hide from the desires of his heart. His desire for _her._

 _What a bloody mess,_ she thought, lifting her good hand and gently dragging her fingertips against Nick's hand where it rested on her belly. When she'd first stumbled across him in Matt's kitchen, saw that smile she remembered so fondly and felt her heart pounding in her chest, she'd never imagined, not for a moment, that they'd end up _here_. Back in the Claybournes' lives, back under SIS's power, back in danger. But somehow she felt as if she should have seen it coming, as if all along they had been hurtling towards this reckoning, this moment when they would have to face themselves, and each other, would have to face what they'd done, would have to decide for themselves what the future might hold. They could not continue on as they had done indefinitely, sharing quiet drinks and gazing a little too long and falling asleep together when the world grew too heavy to bear. What she felt for him, what he felt for her, was a bomb that had started ticking the moment they first met in that shitty hotel room years before, and it was counting down the seconds, now, zero hour fast approaching.

She'd have to make a decision. If they both survived this ordeal - which seemed like a pretty big _if,_ given how things had gone so far - they could not go back to the way things had been. A line had been drawn in the sand when she'd woken beside him and told him _we can't do this again,_ and they had pole vaulted over that line and gone running for the horizon together. Having spoken the truth of their hearts, having finally tasted his kiss once more, Jen knew that everything had changed. What she didn't know, what she couldn't fathom, was where they went from here, what would become of them when they finally returned to their own homes. She wanted Homicide, and she wanted Nick, and she could not have them both.

Beside her Nick shifted, slowly drifting up from dreams; she felt his lips brush against her shoulder, the gentlest of kisses, easily hidden from the cameras, and tears threatened to gather in the corners of her eyes to think how badly she wanted him to kiss her properly, how badly she wanted to take his hand and run like hell away from this place, to sell away on that damn boat he'd always dreamed about and never have to worry about anything ever again.

"Hey," he said, his voice so low Jen barely heard it, nevermind the mics. "You all right."

"Hurts," she whispered back. The night before they had spoken softly to one another, devised a plan in breathless whispers while her arm screamed in protest. The night before Nick had reached for her, let his hand drift over her face, and his thumb had caught against her bottom lip in a caress so tender it made her shiver to think of it now. She knew exactly how he'd touch her, if she let him, knew exactly how perfect they felt together, wanted it with every fiber of her being, and yet she knew she could not have it. Not now, not until she'd had a chance to catch her breath and think things through. If they lived that long. The ever-present threat of danger had shattered her resolve before, left her thinking there was no point in holding herself back from him, when either of them could die at any moment. If this operation went on too much longer, she was certain her resolve would not hold.

"Need me to get your pills?" he asked, thoughtful the way he always was. He'd been shot on the previous op, she remembered, in almost exactly the same place; had he hurt this badly, back then? She'd known his arm must have pained him, but he'd never once complained. He must have remembered, though, remembered the depth of this heart, and he was trying, in his own way, to help her through it.

"No, they're here. I'll take them in a minute. You should sleep."

"Nah," he said. Even though she couldn't see him she knew what he was thinking; Nick had always been an early riser, and once he was up, he was up for good. There would be no more sleep for him. Maybe he'd linger in bed for a time, but more likely he'd only stay a minute or two, and then he'd shuffle off to the loo, go and start the coffee. Idleness didn't come easily to him, and morning was his favorite time of day. It was one of the many things Jen had learned about him over their time together, and he had no need to explain himself to her.

"You're worried," he said when she didn't answer him. He hadn't needed her to tell him what she was thinking, either; he must have felt the tension in her, tight beneath the weight of him. "It's not too late to change our plans."

Maybe she _did_ need to tell him what she was thinking. Apparently he thought she was just worried about the op, their plan to track down Abbott on their own. And she was worried about it, of course she was; they could take the car like they'd done in the old days, run away from the house for a bit, and if there was no tracker on it they could do a proper investigation, and explain away their long absence with glib lies when they returned, as they had so often done in the past. The plan seemed almost doomed to end in disaster, but then so too did McAllister's inept attempts at bringing Hartono on side; whatever choice they made, this was going to be a difficult day. It wasn't the job Jen was worried about; it was _them._ The question of _what happens next,_ the question of how she'd ever manage without him by her side, in her bed, the question of what would become of them when they returned to a station full of people they'd been lying to for the last year, that was what troubled her. Nick was the only person in the whole world she could confess her fears to, but she worried that telling him would only wound him, and hurting him was the last thing she ever wanted to do.

"No," she said. "We'll go ahead with our plan. I just…" her voice trailed off. The pain in her arm made it hard to think, and she didn't quite know what she wanted to tell him, anyway.

Nick's arm tightened ever so slightly against her as he realized the true source of her anxiety, as if he could feel her already slipping away and sought to keep her close.

"The rest of it can keep," he said. "You don't have to decide anything right now."

"I hate that," she answered grimly. "I hate not knowing. I hate not having a plan."

"I know you do." Nick's lips brushed her shoulder as he spoke, a small piece of comfort in this moment when Jen felt herself tumbling, caught beneath a wave she couldn't break free from, unable to tell up from down.

"But I love you," she breathed. "I don't know what to do, but I know that much."

Nick lifted his head slowly, his eyes black as night in the darkness between them, but filled with warmth, still, burning for her.

"I love you," he answered, and her heart gave a funny little flip in her chest; she knew he did, had known he loved her for months, for years now, but to hear him say it, when he'd never been able to before, when he'd never felt free enough to confess to the truth, when he wasn't really free to say it now, moved her in a way she wasn't expecting. He _loved_ her; they weren't talking about fondness or comradeship or vague affection. It was _love,_ this thing between them, and love could kill.

"I've got you, sweetheart," he reminded her. "We will get through this job. I will keep you safe," he continued in that same fierce whisper. "And when we get home, we will figure this out. Whatever it takes, whatever you need. We'll do it together."

He was just so bloody _sure,_ looking at her like she was the most precious thing he'd ever seen, that in that moment she couldn't help but believe him. _Fuck the cameras,_ she thought. It was early, yet, and likely whatever minders had been put in charge of surveillance for the night were half asleep and thinking longingly of their own beds, hardly paying attention. The room was dark, anyway, and given how slapdash the rest of the operation had been Jen reckoned the cameras couldn't have been too good, anyway. Even if they were, though, even if someone was watching them in all their technicolor glory, it didn't matter to Jen, not in that moment. They had given all of themselves, their very lives, to people who did not care if they lived or died. Let McAllister rant and rave, let him threaten to ruin their lives; he needed them, and Jen would not let anyone take Nick away from her, not now.

And so she reached for him, left her fingers drift softly through his hair, and pulled him in close. It was all the prompting Nick needed; his hand slid over her hip, and bowed his head, and when his lips touched hers they both sighed in relief. For a moment they lost themselves in one another, soft lips pressing, searching, parting, his tongue darting out to flick tentatively against hers until she tightened her grip on his hair and he smiled against her lips, their confidence growing. It felt right, somehow, familiar, and her fear faded somewhat, in the face of the love she felt for him, the love he felt for her.

A kiss was as far as they could go; her arm hurt too badly for further exertion, and as much as she was enjoying throwing caution to the wind she wasn't much of an exhibitionist. Anything more would have to wait, until they were home, until they were free. But their time would come, of that she was certain. All they had to do was survive the next few days, and then finally they'd be allowed to rest, would be allowed the chance to talk properly, to come up with the plan she sorely needed. She didn't know what the future held, but she knew that Nick would be a part of it. He always had been, lurking just beneath her skin, a piece of her own heart, and a future without him wasn't one she wanted to imagine. Not now, not when he was holding her, kissing her, when he was the only person in the world she could trust. Nick had promised her they'd get through this together, and Nick always kept his promises.


	49. Chapter 49

_7 August 2005_

Jen sighed and pressed herself more firmly against Wesley, watching the sun sinking low over the water. It was a beautiful view, Bondi Beach at sunset, sitting on a blanket next to her husband, his arm warm where it wrapped around her waist. They didn't often get a chance to run off like this, to enjoy the city they'd called home for a year now, and she was savoring the moment as best she could. It had been Wesley's idea, going down to the beach; the clock was ticking on Hartono's operation, now that the Claybournes had proven themselves useful, now that they were certain a container of human cargo was on its way to them, and Wesley had suggested they do something touristy, something fun, while they still could. SIS had learned as many lessons over the last year as Trish and Wesley had done, and they were certain that this time, they'd catch Hartono out. If they were right, that meant Jen and her Wesley didn't have much time left, either, and so she had not protested, had only smiled, and let him lead her out of the house, a blanket slung over his arm. They sat on that blanket now, comfortable with one another.

"I can't believe it took us this long to come down here," she said, mostly just to have something to say. It was nice, talking with Wesley, and she wanted to do it as much as she could, for as long as she could. The day was fast approaching when she'd be parted from him, and she'd never hear his voice again.

"We had other things to worry about," he answered softly. That was true; they weren't a happily married couple, wealthy and bored, with nothing to do but neck like teenagers and run down to the beach. It was all a job, in the end; the wedding rings, the bed they'd shared, the dances at glittering parties, the quiet, lazy Saturdays in the garden, all of it had been _work._ Well, maybe not all of it. Kissing him, that wasn't work. Holding him tight between her thighs in the backseat of their borrowed car, that wasn't work either. That was something else, something she couldn't think about too long for fear she might burst into tears.

"You think we'll get him, this time?" she asked. Jen reckoned she knew the answer to that one already; they would. She felt it in her bones. Live cargo wasn't like crates; Hartono couldn't afford to just leave it sitting. He'd need serious manpower to keep his charges docile during the unloading, and he probably planned to separate them, to cart them off to a half dozen different places at least. The dry cleaners were up and running, four of them in Sydney now and two in Canberra, and talk of a few more opening up down in Melbourne. To get his cargo to the shops he'd need several trucks, ready the minute his container unloaded. Every one of his men would have to be on sight, for this one, and not a damn one of them could feign ignorance. A porter might protest that he didn't know what was in a box, that he was just carrying it, but a man hauling a living, breathing woman off to a terrible fate couldn't pretend he didn't know better. To keep the men in line, to organize the whole setup, Hartono would want to be on site, Jen was sure of it.

"Yeah," Wesley said. "Things are different this time."

Jen hummed, to let him know she understood, because she did. Everything was different, now. The plan was different, the logistics were different, and the way Jen felt about her Wesley had changed, too. His steady warmth, his soft voice, his comforting presence; he had become the beginning and the end of everything for her, in a way she never could have imagined a year before. The thought of waking up one day without him beside her was unbearable; she had all but forgotten what it was to be without him, and she didn't want to remember, now.

"Trish?" he said, his voice low and strangely uncertain. It wasn't like him to doubt himself; Wesley always seemed to know just what to do.

"Yeah?"

"Will you tell me your name?"

Jen sucked in a sharp breath and pulled away from him slightly, the better to lift her chin and gaze up in to his dear face. There was an earnest, almost desperate sort of sincerity shining in his dark eyes, and it tore at her heart, left her feeling weak and wretched. It was not an easy thing he was asking, was not a simple gift she could bestow and then forget; if she told him her name he would carry it with him, always, could use it one day, if he wanted, to track her down, to find her again. To give him her name would be to make him a promise, a promise that if one day he turned up on her doorstep she would not send him away. It was a promise Jen wanted to make, with everything she had. For a moment she tried to imagine it, opening the door of her little house and finding him standing there, smiling that gentle smile he reserved just for her, taking his hand and leading him into her home, into a place where there were no cameras, no microphones, no one but them. She tried to imagine it, the sound of her own name falling from his lips, and nearly wept with bitter longing. She _wanted_ it, but she could not have it, and she knew it. It was a dream too sweet to ever be made real.

"You know I want to," she answered softly. On impulse she reached out, ran her fingers tenderly through his soft hair while his eyes went sad and lonesome, watching her while she broke both their hearts. There were a few other people on the beach, but none of those people were SIS, and none of them were watching the couple slowly falling apart on their faded blue blanket, and so Jen saw no reason not to touch him. Even in the act of hurting him, she longed to comfort him; _Christ,_ what a mess they'd found themselves in.

"No one would ever need to know," he said. It was a feeble protest at best, and they both knew it, but this was what they did. When presented with a problem they worked through it together, came at it from every angle, talked it out until a solution presented itself. The solution was obvious, in this case, but she didn't begrudge him the attempt at searching for alternatives.

"They're not going to be watching us when we go home, and even if they are, they won't do it for long. I could lay low for a year or so, and then look you up."

"What if you don't want to know me a year from now?" she pointed out. He opened his mouth to protest but she cut across him at once. "So much can happen in a year." The last twelve months they'd spent together was proof enough of that, for it had completely upended Jen's life in ways she had never anticipated, never could have even fathomed until now. "Who knows where we'll be, or what we'll want? You might meet some nice girl-" he scoffed, and she smiled but carried on - "or what if we live on opposite sides of the country? Can you imagine leaving behind your whole life just to be with me? You don't even know me, Wes. Not really."

"You know me," he said. Gently he caught hold of her hand, and pressed her palm against his chest, just above his beating heart. She could almost feel it, through the warmth of his shirt, and she turned her fingers against the fabric, clinging to him. "You know everything that matters."

Somehow, she rather thought he had the right of that. She didn't know where he'd grown up, or anything about his family, didn't know what he did for work or where he lived, but she knew how he kept his house, and how he took his tea, how he reacted when faced with a challenge, how he handled disagreements, how he held her. The big things, the important things, she had learned about him months before. Still, though, her head knew what her heart did not. There was a house waiting for her in Melbourne, and a job at the State Police, and a life's ambition for advancement and prestige. Could she leave all that behind, venture to Perth or Adelaide or wherever it was that he lived, just to have him? Could he do the same for her? It seemed to much to ask for either of them, when there was no guarantee they wouldn't be found out, when the risk of SIS's vengeance - and criminal charges against them - hung over their heads. She couldn't ask him to trade his life, his future, for her, and she knew she could not bring herself to do the same for him, no matter how she might have wished things were different.

"I do," she said. "I do know you. And I…" _I love you,_ she thought, but she caught herself, didn't let the words pass her lips. Once said they could never be taken back, and Jen knew that if she only told him, told him that she loved him, that she needed him, he would move heaven and earth to find her, and damn them both in the process. Someone had to be strong enough to walk away; for both their sakes, Jen decided that it would be her. She would hold this love deep within her heart, and remember him for all the rest of her days, for she loved him too much to let him trade his future for her.

"We could-"

"We can't. You know we can't. If SIS ever found out, we could both face charges. And I can't let you walk away from your whole life, just for me. And I can't do that for you. No matter how much we might think we want to now."

They had been alone and wholly reliant on one another for so long, perhaps it was inevitable that they should fall for one another. Out in the world, when their lives weren't in danger, when they did different jobs, saw different people, spent time with different friends and slowly shed the Claybournes' skin, perhaps this love would waver, and fade. Perhaps that's all this was, all this had ever been; a momentary madness, a _Folie à deux_ that was always meant to end when the lid finally came off the pressure cooker and everything settled back to normal.

"This really is the end, isn't it?" His voice was gruff with sorrow, but resigned, too; he wasn't fighting her, any more. He never really had been.

"Not tonight," she answered. "Not even tomorrow. We have a little time, Wes."

How long she couldn't say. From the chatter they'd picked up and the requests Hartono had made it appeared that the human cargo was coming in September. They had about a month, to make their plans, to set their trap, to say their goodbyes. After a full year of living someone else's life, a month seemed like no time at all.

"And we'll make the most of it, won't we?"

Jen smiled, wondering how it was possible to be both devastated and relieved at once. He had accepted her logic, and would not press her for her name again. He would hold her, as long as he could, and then he would let her go. They would be happy together, they would be parted. It was all true, the good and the bad and everything in between, and she felt it all at once.

"Yes," she told him. Yes, they would work damn hard, and make sure they put Hartono away for good. Yes, they would take every opportunity to hold one another, from now until the end. Slowly Jen rose up onto her knees, her hands on his shoulders to keep her steady, and Wesley caught hold of her hips, guided her to him as she gently slotted her lips over his. As she kissed him everything else seemed to fade away, and her heart found peace, if only for a moment.


	50. Chapter 50

_5 September 2010_

There was no need for subterfuge, in the end; just as Nick and Jen prepared themselves to leave their safehouse and go in search of answers Ratcliffe came for them, bundled them into his car and began the long drive back to the station, explaining as he went. The powers that be had pulled the plug on McAllister, decided that his cowboy antics weren't accomplishing anything, and were, in fact, were taking too big a risk. _You're just two coppers on your own,_ Ratcliffe told them. _And Hartono knows we're on to him. This has got too big. We'll need reinforcements._ According to Ratcliffe, Byrnes - one of the few SIS agents they didn't completely hate - was already on his way to the station, prepared to brief the team and launch a joint operation.

An operation Nick and Jen both knew Jen could not be part of; her arm was all but useless, and she'd taken those bloody painkillers. Whatever happened next, Jen would observe it sitting behind a desk. Much as Nick would miss having her by his side, much as he wanted her to be present to share in the moment when Hartono _finally,_ after everything, was made to pay for his crimes, a part of his heart couldn't help but be relieved that she'd be sitting this one out. Jen had suffered so much already, physically and mentally, and it would be easier for him to focus if he knew that she was safe, if he wasn't spending half his attention and energy in watching over her.

They entered the building together, the three of them, but as they stepped off the lift Jen pulled back.

"We'll meet you in there," she said to Ratcliffe.

"Now's not the time for a chat, Mapplethorpe," he grumbled. "Can't it wait?"

"We just need to change. Whatever happens next, we can't do it looking like this."

She waved her hand to indicate herself and Nick and their ridiculous, garish clothes. Privately, Nick agreed with her; he'd feel like an ass, walking into the briefing room wearing one of Wesley's patterned shirts with the stupid pearl snaps, and her skirt and sandals were hardly professional attire. They'd both be more comfortable - and better prepared - in their own clothes.

"Do what you like," Ratcliffe said. "I gotta talk to the brass first, anyway."

And so he left them, and Nick and Jen turned aside, made their way deep into the bowels of the station to the locker rooms where they each kept a spare change of clothes. Men's on one side, ladies' on the other; Nick looked from one door to the other, questioning his next move. He did need to change, but he figured Jen would need his help, and he didn't know which way to go first. His brain felt a bit scrambled, at present, events moving almost too quickly for him to keep up. He could only hope the briefing would provide him with some clarity.

"You go first," she told him. "I'll wait for you. I won't get far without you."

If they had been at home - his home or hers or the bloody Claybourne house, he couldn't say which - he would have kissed her then. Would have pulled her in close, and told her everything was going to be all right. She looked small, and scared, and tired, and he wished like hell he could take this pain, this uncertainty from her. But there were too many questions and not enough answers, and they were standing in the middle of the station, and so he only nodded, and left her. Inside the locker room he changed as quickly as he could; his shoes and trousers were fine, and he doubted, somehow, that SIS would want them back. That bloody shirt had to go, though, and as he buttoned up his own shirt, looped his half-tied tie around his neck and pulled it tight, he felt a little of his equilibrium returning. Clothes were only half the bargain, though; it would not be so easy to shed Wesley Claybourne entirely.

As soon as he was settled he walked back into the corridor, looked around furtively to assure himself that he was alone and unobserved, and then slipped into the ladies'. It was deserted save for Jen, standing alone by her open locker, her shoes discarded but otherwise still dressed. He took a moment to lock the door behind him - the last thing they needed, in this moment, was a witness - and then he went to join her.

"Let's get this over with," Jen sighed, and Nick just reached for her, his fingers already working on her shirt buttons. She'd chosen this blouse because she didn't have to pull it over her head, but she couldn't manage the buttons on her own, and taking it off would be Nick's job. He knew that already, remembered from the morning when he'd helped her put it on. It seemed like something that had happened in another lifetime, his hands on her skin, her eyes soft as she watched him, the air between them warm from the shower and full of promise for better moments to come.

"We're gonna get him this time, Jen," he told her as he worked. He kept his gaze focused on the buttons, and tried to ignore her pale skin, the soft tan fabric of her bra, the pounding of his heart. This little assignation was about efficiency, not passion, but she'd kissed him in bed just that morning, and standing this close to her he couldn't help but wonder what would become of them now, whether he'd ever get the chance to kiss her again. The first time undercover they'd known when their time would run out, had been given a chance to say goodbye, knew what waited for them and accepted it. This time, though, everything had fallen apart so quickly that Nick had no idea what it was she was feeling, what she wanted to happen next.

"We've said that before," she reminded him gently. "And you and I both know how dangerous he is when he's backed into a corner."

Nick finished the buttons and gently pulled the shirt away, helped her slide first one arm, then the other out of it until the shirt was off her, and he could shove it in her locker. As he did his gaze fell to his shoes; she was too beautiful, and his heart was too raw, for him to look at her head on.

"It's different this time," he said. _Everything has bloody changed, and I don't know which way is up, any more._

"The skirt, too," she reminded him. She couldn't manage the zip one handed, either, and he'd be forced to bare her almost completely, and yet not be allowed to touch her. _Christ,_ this was torture.

Gritting his teeth, then, he reached for the zip of the skirt.

"Promise me you'll be careful out there," she murmured, her voice low and soft over the sound of the zip.

"They might not even let me go in the field." Nick caught the skirt in his hands, and slid it down over her hips. He bent over as he went, and Jen rested one warm hand on his shoulder, holding herself steady as she stepped out of the skirt. It was a gesture borne of necessity, but he was grateful for her touch just the same; the time would soon come when she could not touch him at all. When they'd gotten dressed that same morning, standing alone in the bathroom in their underwear, she'd kissed his shoulder, but there were no kisses for him now, though, just quick, studied movements and an expression that looked an awful lot like sorrow in her eyes.

"They'd be stupid not to. But you have to come back to me, Nick."

He should not have looked at her then, when she was mostly naked and he was holding her skirt in his hands. He shouldn't have given in to his own weakness, his own need for her, but he did it just the same, compelled by the soft sound of her voice, and he found in her gaze the same wretchedness he felt in his own heart. They loved one another, they could not have one another, and their temporary escape was over already. They'd been seconded to SIS just long enough to break both their hearts, had not been given enough time to work through the obstacles that faced them, and the risk of Nick not coming home was greater now than it had ever been. Hartono had switched from guns to bombs, had something major in the works he would defend every way he knew how, and the man had never been hesitant to kill before. He'd murdered Abdul's entire family, for God's sake, wife and little kids, too, just for revenge. What he might do, if he ever got his hands on the fake Wesley Claybourne, didn't bear thinking about. It would be the cruelest trick of fate, Nick thought, if he had finally heard Jen tell him that she loved him, only for him to die the same day.

"I will," he said, his voice low and fierce. "I promise, sweetheart, I won't ever leave you."

Jen's lower lip wobbled, her eyes blinking back tears, and Nick gave up all pretense of professionalism and pulled her tight against his chest. "I swear," he whispered against her hair, her hands fisting in his shirt as she clung to him. It was a promise he had no right to make; he didn't know what was coming for him, what horrors lurked out there in the world, but he made it just the same. Nothing save for death could keep him from her side.

"I love you," she whispered back, her breath warm against the column of his neck. "But I hate this."

The lies, the fear, the doubt, Nick hated it, too. He hated to think that he had finally found her, the only woman who'd ever made him think about forever, the only one he'd ever truly loved, and might even now be standing on the brink of losing her. Even if they survived this day, there was no telling what the future might bring. They couldn't sleep together and work together, and Jen valued her job too highly to ever let it go, but Nick could not imagine falling asleep without her by his side, not ever again. After everything, the bullets and the blood and four years of separation and everything that had happened since, he had _found_ her, and he could not, would not ever let her go without a fight.

"I love you, Jen," he told her. "And we are going to get through this, and we are going to sort everything out, and we are going to be all right."

The clock was ticking; no matter how much he might wish he could simply stand there holding her forever, Nick knew they could not afford to linger. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head and then pulled away, reaching for her trousers.

"I'm sorry," she said, settling her hand once more on his shoulder, letting him guide one bare foot and then the other into her trousers, keeping hold of him as he gently pulled the fabric up her legs, settled the trousers in place around her hips. He let his fingertips brush against her stomach, as he reached for the button, that touch the smallest piece of reassurance, the warmth of her skin a comfort to him.

"Me, too," he told her. "But this isn't the end."

With the trousers sorted he reached for the purple blouse she'd set aside, shook it out while she stepped into her shoes, and then raised the shirt over her head. Jen swore, softly, as she slid her wounded arm through the sleeve, and the sound of her pain pierced his heart like a knife. _If I ever get the chance,_ he thought grimly, _I'll put a bullet between Hartono's eyes. For Howard, and Davis, and Frank and Marcy, and Abdul, and for Jen. I'll kill the rotten bastard myself._

"Maybe," she told him, watching him as he pulled her blouse down to meet her trousers, hid her skin from view at last, "maybe when this is done we can finally charter a boat like you wanted."

In the bath the night before she'd told him _no,_ told him that they couldn't even contemplate such a thing, not so long as they worked together. He knew why she was telling him _yes_ now; they needed a dream to cling to, a hope for brighter days. When the dust settled she might well change her mind again, but terror and heartache made a person want to reach for joy, however impossible it might be to attain. He tried to remind himself of their predicament, tried not to get his own hopes up; _the day's not over yet,_ he thought. There was no telling what shape they'd be in, what she'd really want, by the time this thing was through. But it was nice to dream.

"I'd like that," he told her, and reached behind her, gently lifted her hair out from beneath her collar. The only thing left was her sling, a gauzy thing that would cradle her arm close to her chest, keep it safe while she healed. That was all he wanted, in the end, Jen safe, and healed, and with him.

Carefully he hooked the sling in place, and let his hands settle on her hips, looking her over and searching for anything out of place. All was as it should be; she was beautiful, and in her own clothes she looked like _Jen,_ again, not the girl who'd first captured his interest but the woman he'd fallen in love with.

"You ready?" he asked her softly.

"No," she answered, and her voice shook when she spoke.

"Me, neither."

They had to go, but neither of them moved an inch; to take a single step now would be to put them both once more on the road to ruin, barreling down the tracks with no hope for peace until Hartono was caught or Nick himself was dead. For a moment they lingered, frozen; in two days' time they had gone from friends to lovers, no matter that he'd not had the chance to bury himself inside her. She had taken up residence within his heart once more, and he could not breathe for wanting her. If only he could have taken her hand and marched out the door, left the station behind and taken them both somewhere else, somewhere far away, somewhere _safe_ , he would have done it in an instant. He would have, but he couldn't; they had a job to do.

"Time to go," she whispered. Slowly she lifted herself up onto her toes and pressed a gentle kiss against his lips, but then she was walking away, Nick's hands sliding slowly away from her body, fingers grasping for a warmth that did not last. He couldn't resent her for leaving this moment behind; it was always meant to end. Taking a deep breath, then, he followed her out of the locker room, down the corridor, into the briefing room, and when someone ribbed them about being late he only said _blame Mapplethorpe,_ and the team smiled at them, indulgent and relieved and curious all at once, and once more Nick took all the love he felt for her and all his dreams for the future, and tucked them away deep in his heart.


	51. Chapter 51

_23 September 2005_

_This is it,_ Nick thought as he pulled the car to a stop, killed the ignition and looked over at Trish in the darkness. Every moment of every day for the last thirteen months had been leading them here, to this. Hartono was on his way, along with Prakoso and Abdul and about a dozen other associates, with a convoy of cars and a plan to unload the cargo - not crates this time, Nick was certain, but living, breathing human beings - and ship it off to various locations. SIS had the whole dockyard bugged, and the place was crawling with bodies, lurking in shadows. They'd open the crate, confirm that there were people inside, and wait just long enough for the unloading to begin. Then SIS would swoop in, close in from all sides. They'd arrest everyone in sight - including Trish and Wesley Claybourne - scoop up Hartono and Prakoso and whoever else, and then question the lot of them, hoping for more names in exchange for a reduced sentence. Nick and Trish would be driven to separate locations for their debrief, and they would never, ever see one another again.

"You ready?" he asked her softly. They'd been walking on eggshells all day; the quiet conversation they'd shared the night before had been their real good-bye, and they both knew it. The rest of this was just epilogue; they'd ended when she whispered _don't forget about me._ In the feeble glow of the street lights he could see her hands trembling. There was no need to ask what had made her anxious, for Nick knew as well as she did that Hartono and his men would come armed. They might very well be walking into a bloodbath, Nick and Trish the bait that set the trap, and neither of them had been allowed weapons. _It has to look real,_ Abdul had told them. _And if it looks so real we get killed?_ Trish had demanded. There had been no answer to that question.

"Ready as I'll ever be," she said. As he watched she took a deep breath, turned her head towards him. In the darkness her eyes shone like stars, and burned straight through him. _This is it,_ he thought. It was the end of everything. No more clinches in the backseat of that car, no more falling asleep with Trish in his arms, no more holding her hand as they wandered through the market. No more Trish, no more Wesley; come tomorrow he'd be on his way back to Melbourne. In a week or two he'd be back on Homicide - if they'd kept his spot open for him. This _sabbatical_ had taken longer than anyone anticipated, and the squad might have moved on without him. Everything would be different, after this. And Trish would disappear back to whenever she'd come from, would fade into the shadows of memory.

"One last time," he said, and reached for her hand. She took it, slipped her fingers through his and clung to him fiercely. The car had been their safe haven for months now, the one place they could talk without being observed. He'd lost count of the number of times they'd sat just like this, holding onto one another, whispered hopes and fears back and forth far from prying eyes. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd pulled her into his lap, ghosted his hands over her skin. If only they had more _time,_ maybe he could have -

"I can't believe it's over," she whispered.

 _Not over yet,_ he thought glumly; they still had to get through this operation intact. The worst was still waiting for them, out there in the dark. But he didn't correct her, for he knew what she meant. The job wasn't over, not yet, but _they_ were. Whatever they had become to one another, Nick and this woman whose name was not Trish, they would have to put it aside now. Forever.

"Five years from today," he said slowly. "Maybe I'll come down to Bondi beach."

Trish laughed, a bit wetly, and reached for him with her free hand, trailed her fingers through his hair gently in a way that made his eyes close, hungry to savor the warmth of her touch for as long as he could, knowing he'd never feel it again.

"Maybe I will, too," she told him. "Maybe I'll wear a white dress."

"Maybe I'll look for you."

"Maybe I'll be there."

He smiled, sadly; it was a beautiful thought, something to hold on to. She wouldn't tell him her name, wouldn't let him track her down, and he knew why, knew she was right. But a few years down the track, maybe SIS would have forgotten all about them. Maybe Trish would have forgotten all about _him,_ too, but he knew he never would. He'd be there, in September, on the beach, looking for that woman with her golden hair and her white dress, and maybe...maybe everything would be all right. Then again, maybe she'd be married with babies in five years' time, happy without him. Maybe he would be, but somehow he didn't think so. There was only one woman he could imagine wearing his ring, and he didn't even know her name.

"Time to go, sweetheart," she told him, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder. There was a look in her eye Nick had come to recognize, a yearning he felt churning in his own heart, and so he did not hesitate; he leaned towards her, slowly, and Trish closed the distance between them, and both their eyes fluttered closed as their lips brushed together, softly, gently, sealing their promise and their separation all at once. When Nick pulled back there were tears on her cheek, and he brushed them away gently with his thumb.

 _This is it,_ he thought. His eyes darted across her face, sealing her image in his memory, her tan skin, her soft hair, her diamond-bright eyes, her lips parted and still warm from his kiss. She was beautiful, and his heart was breaking. Lingering would not help them, and they both knew it; they had a job to do.

"This is it," he said, and with that the spell was broken, and they both slipped from the car and out into the night.

* * *

Jen tucked her hands in her pockets to hide their trembling. The wheels had been set in motion; Abdul was standing beside Jen and Wesley, flanked by seven porters and seven drivers. The only thing left was for Hartono and Prakoso to arrive, and then the action would begin. Each team of men planned to take their designated cargo back to a vehicle in the caravan waiting just the dirt track that passed for a road between the containers, and as soon as they started to move, the sting would begin. SIS had promised that they would have a heavy presence, but so far Jen hadn't caught sight of a single one of them. Suppose Hartono had already flushed them out? Suppose he knew already, and had given orders to have Trish and Wesley shot before the container opened? And where the bloody hell _was_ he?

"What's the hold up, mate?" Wesley asked Abdul. With every appearance of casual affection he reached for Jen, wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her in close. "We've got plans tonight."

"Just another minute," Abdul answered. If he was nervous he didn't show it, and neither did Wesley; Wesley just held on to her, and when she looked up at him he smiled. Strange, she thought, how easily he could slip into character. Then again, she supposed they'd had rather a lot of practice.

The sound of shoes crunching on gravel caught their attention then, and the three of them turned, watched as Mr. Prakoso stepped into view. Alone.

 _Shit,_ Jen thought. Hartono wasn't there, and somehow Jen knew in her gut he wasn't just running late; he wasn't coming at all. He had to have known something was up; he trusted Prakoso, but for something this big, this important, he would have wanted to be on site. It was always a possibility, him not turning up, and they'd discussed it with Abdul. _We go ahead,_ Abdul had told them. _We have to save those girls, and if we get enough of his people, maybe someone will flip. This is happening, now. We've wasted too much time already._

"Open the crate," Prakoso said in his clipped, dead voice, and with those words he confirmed Jen's suspicions. After all this time, the blood and the tears and the lies and the close calls, they weren't going to get him. He'd slip away, move on somewhere else, and she'd have nothing to show for the year of her life she'd sacrificed to this job. Nothing but heartbreak and the sour taste of regret in her mouth, nothing but memories of a man she could have loved, if only thing had been different. There was no time for her to linger on thoughts of regret; the porters were already moving, and Jen and Wesley took a step back, let them get to work while Prakoso sidled up to them. Jen didn't like that; the man made her skin crawl, and if Hartono knew that something was afoot, Prakoso would know, too. _Unless Hartono set him up,_ Jen thought. _Either he's here to kill us, or he's here to take the fall._

"Thought we might see our friend this evening," Wesley said, his voice calm and even. There was no accusation in his tone, no anxiety. Maybe Prakoso would buy it.

"He had urgent business elsewhere." Jen was trying not to stare, but it looked to her like Prakoso's hand was drifting towards his hip, as if discreetly reaching for something he kept concealed there. Maybe it was nothing, or maybe he was armed, and preparing to slaughter them where they stood. Either way their very lives hung on her reaction; she had to remain calm, no matter how her heart was screaming, no matter the fear that choked her.

"He's a busy man," Wesley said easily.

The container was open, now, and the porters stepped in, and Jen held her breath, waiting. If there was nothing inside but boxes, maybe SIS wouldn't come charging in. Maybe she'd get a little more time with Wesley, maybe they'd be able to snag Hartono for good.

One of the porters drew a torch, and the whole lot of them began to approach the container. The feeble light of the torch flashed off a myriad of faces inside the container, and Jen's heart sank. It was quite the most awful thing she'd ever seen, a bevy of young women - she couldn't say quite how many - with dirty faces and vacant eyes - _drugged, most like,_ she thought - crowded together at the back of the container. Living, breathing, human women who'd been bought and sold like cattle, brought to this country for reasons too horrible to contemplate, their misery orchestrated by a man who'd sat at Jen's table while she served him tea. She wanted to vomit; she wanted to weep. She wanted to scream; she wanted to pummel Prakoso with her fists. Wesley's hand tightened against her waist, drew her in closer, as if to keep them both from making a mistake.

"Bring them out, and let's get them moving!" Prakoso called to the porters.

And then all hell broke loose.

In the briefing later Jen would struggle to recall the details; it was dark, and everything happened so quickly. SIS agents carrying guns and dressed in black came swarming over them like flies over a corpse, screaming for everyone to get down. A few of Hartono's men dropped to the dirt; a few tried to run, and those that did quickly ran into a wall of bodies, herding them back towards the side of the container. The girls inside the container - the ones who were awake, at least - began to scream. And beside her, Prakoso drew his gun.

The hand at Jen's hip vanished; Wesley threw her down into the dirt, quickly, and dropped over her, shielded her head against his chest. His quick thinking saved them both, for it gave SIS a clear shot at Prakoso. He had a bullet in his arm before he even managed to aim at them properly; Jen screamed when she heard the sound, thinking Wesley had been hit, but he just held her tighter, her face buried in his shirt.

"It's all right, sweetheart," he whispered, his breath ruffling her hair.

And then strong hands came for them, wrenched them apart; Jen could hardly hear over the din, could only watch in horror as Wesley was pulled away from her, his hand still stretched out towards her. _Sweetheart_ was the last word she'd ever hear him say, for his mouth was closed, now, resigned to his fate as two SIS agents bundled him away, and two others took Jen, and pulled her in the opposite direction. That was the last she would ever see of him, his soft hair, his warm eyes, his hand reaching for her.

Tears gathered in her eyes, and this time she let them fall; Hartono's men would think Trish was weeping for her husband, and the SIS agents...the SIS agents could hang, she thought. She hated them, in that moment, hated them for the lives that had been lost, hated them for the way they had used her, hated them bringing Wesley into her life, and taking him away again.

 _This is it,_ she thought. _This is the end of everything._


End file.
